


Mutual Constraints

by Majestrix



Series: The Highlands [1]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, The highlander AU two people asked for, bodice ripping tropes ahead, smut of course, we're not even swerving, we're running full in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 87,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majestrix/pseuds/Majestrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In medieval Scotland, Ichabod of Clan Crane and Abigail of Clan Mills hit it off despite the animosity between their clans. When circumstances require Ichabod take abrupt and drastic measures, he'll be required to do what he must to redeem himself in Abbie's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Path Committed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl/gifts), [Kohthefacedealer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kohthefacedealer/gifts).



> Oh my god, I don't know what I'm doing. lol Thank you so much to my beta, Vero, and her wonderful suggestions and additions to help make this fic what it is, which wouldn't be anything because she gave me the idea!

It’s the warmth that brings Abbie up from the darkness.

She throws off the covers, over warm and breathing deeply. No wonder she’s burning up – a fire burns cheerfully in the fireplace and the windows are closed. Abbie stumbles across the stone floor and wrenches open the window, relieved when a light breeze begins to cool her bosom and brow. She leans against the sill until she’s no longer in danger of ripping off her dress due to the heat.

Nothing Abbie can see outside the window gives her any sort of indication as to where she is – there’s only the shadow of a mountain above and below a beautiful, very still lake. 

_Where am I?_ Abbie wonders. 

The last thing she can remember is the market. She was supposed to be picking up some things and enjoying her day. She turned the corner between two tents and ran into... _someone_ , and then there was something over her face. 

Abbie blanches at the sickly sweet taste at the back of her throat and glances around the room. There’s a table with a pitcher, a mug, and an unused candle in a holder. The pitcher is water and she fills the mug and drains it twice before she stops, her stomach sloshing uncomfortably. 

It does a world of difference for her stomach and her head; now to find out where she’s been taken. There would be hell to pay for anyone who thought a daughter of the Clan Mills is to be trifled with.

Abbie grabs the door and finds it open – her abductor’s first and last mistake. She gathers her skirts and runs down the winding staircase, encountering no one - yet another miscalculation on their part. 

She reaches the landing and another door. Abbie grunts as she falls against it. It’s locked. She tries again, wrenching the cold iron to and fro but it doesn’t budge. Abbie crouches at the keyhole and pulls one of the long pins holding the mass of braids in place on top of her head. Wishing she had thought to bring one of the candles from the room, she concentrates on prying open the mechanism.

The lock pops audibly and it sounds so loud she thinks it will bring people running but the heavy door swings forward a few inches and no one comes.

Abbie rises to her feet and places her hands on her hips. What, so someone took the effort to kidnap her but they don’t bother to watch her? To keep her from escaping? Livid, she strides through the door and down another corridor and into a main hall. The décor is basic at best, as if the building is left empty most of the time. 

Tables and benches are stacked against the wall and the long windows to the west cast the gold light of the afternoon sun onto the flagstone floor. It looks like someone began sweeping and lost interest. Abbie can’t really blame them as she hoists her hem higher.

She wouldn’t want to sweep this place, either.

Abbie runs the length of the great room and into another smaller corridor, where she runs into a man, slouched and slightly snoring. She screams and he leaps to his feet, screaming as well. 

“Oi, could ye quit it?” he bellows, hands over his ears.

Abbie stops, blinking at the sound of his voice.

“… Bram? Katrina Tanner’s Bram?” 

“Aye,” he snaps. “Are ye going ta keep yellin’?” 

Bram Bowie of Clan Crane, noted for his ferocity with a sword and his undying love for Katrina Tanner, stands head and shoulders above Abbie’s diminutive stature. She steps back as he advances forward, remembering his long reach and remarked upon strength.

Abbie lets her anger burn and refuses to be put on the defensive as she puts her hands on her hips and scoffs. 

“I promise you’d rather me do that than beat your arse, I don’t care if Katrina will be sore or nae! What the hell am I doing here? Are we the only ones here?”

Bram pins her with a stare and gestures back toward the great room. 

“I’ll answer all yer questions, all right? Let’s just go somewhere we can sit.”

“Here’s fine,” she snaps.

“Well, I’m hungry and can use a bit of ale, I don’t know about you.” 

He moves past Abbie just in time to hear her stomach growl loudly. 

“Sounds like you could do with some food, too.” 

Bram offers his arm. 

Abbie glares at his arm then back up at him. 

“You just don’t want me in close quarters,” she snaps as she takes it.

“I’ve heard of the daughters of the Mills Clan. Yer right, I probably don’t,” he says good-naturedly. 

~*~

Ichabod doesn’t allow himself to feel anything until his steed, Cadeyrn, crosses into Duhnorum Valley. If good fortune still favors the bold he expects to be greeted by his best friend and soon to be wife. 

_Wife_.

The word sends shivers down his spine as he eases into a faster gallop. Ichabod knows Bram is discreet and good at anything he puts his hand and mind to, but this is something so very different than anything he’s tasked his friend with before. Failure is unimaginable for he knows he won’t have a second chance, not at this. 

The last leg of his journey is filled with the harsh sound of his own breath and the beating of his heart. Ichabod doesn’t take a proper breath until Castle Donnáin looms before him, mostly darkened. He’ll have to procure servants at once to open the residence and truly make it a home fit for his bride.

Ichabod slows Cadeyrn to a canter and diverts to the stables, irritated with lack of foresight to bring servants to attend his arrival. He tends to his faithful beast and sets him to rights before allowing himself to hurry inside. 

“Bram? What news?” he bellows, impatient. Ichabod knows it’s late as he rushes down to the kitchens but part of him hopes that Abigail is there, waiting for him. He throws open the door and finds no one but Bram, a slab of meat against one eye and a mug of ale before him on the table. 

“What in the hell happened to you?”

“Yer bride,” Bram bites out before he takes a swig of his drink. “She has one hell of a punch, let me tell ye, and I was forced to take her pins.”

“Her pins?” Ichabod attempts to inhale but a small laugh sneaks by without his permission.

“Abigail who is nae this high,” he gestures about his chest, “was able to land a blow to your face?”

Bram glares at him with his one good eye and removes the steak to reveal a dreadful black eye. Ichabod winces and bites his mouth to keep from laughing. 

“Why did she punch you?”

“Could be we kidnapped her from clan and home without warning.” Bram shrugs and takes another swallow.

Ichabod glances around the kitchen and confirms they’re the only occupants. 

“And where is Abigail now?” 

“She’s back in the tower and this time I locked _both_ doors,” Bram says. 

“That won’t win me any quarter,” Ichabod murmurs and Bram snorts in his drink. 

“I think ye have overestimated yer ‘quarter’ with the lass,” he says as he rises from the bench. “She is angry. Breathtaking in her beauty but exceptionally angry. Ye will nae find an easy conquest here.”

Ichabod draws himself up to full height. 

“I dinnae want a _conquest_ ,” he says. “I have wanted Abigail to be my wife since laying eyes on her. If it wasn’t for fate, I would nae have known to move when I did and she would have been lost to me. She’ll ‘round to reason when I explain.”

“Because of three rousing conversations in the market and another too close to Clan Mills’ seat. Ichabod, hear me. Tread lightly.” Bram shakes his head and puts the slab of meat against his face with a groan. “Now that you’ve arrived I will retire to my bedroom. Do you have any further need of me?” 

Ichabod stares at the banked fire in the hearth and shakes his head. 

“I’ll need you to ride out in the morn and return with five servants and enough food for a few weeks. We’ll get more later. Ensure they’re competent but expendable. We need to show Abigail we’re nae savages.”

“Aye.” Bram refills his mug and exits the kitchen silently.

Ichabod remains, caught off guard by the gnaw of hunger eating through his middle. It prods him to the pot hanging over the hearth and the rich stew smell emanating from it. He fills a bowl and glances at the loaf of untouched bread on the corner of the table. Did Abigail eat?

He fashions a tray with another bowl of stew and two thick slices of bread and goes to the door that leads to the eastern wing. Balancing the tray and removing the key from ‘round his neck takes some doing but he manages, thankful that Bram had lit the torches that line the stairs to her room. 

Unexpectedly Ichabod finds himself hesitant when he comes to her door. It’s silent on the other side; what is she doing? Is she sleeping? Should he return in the morning? It’s in the middle of the night, what kind of beginning to their relationship would this be? But Ichabod’s concern that Abigail hasn’t eaten makes him swallow his consternation and unlock her door. 

The evening chill does not touch this room as warmth spills over and into the hall. Ichabod clears his throat to announce his arrival when the tray he’s holding flips over and slams into his chest. Ichabod ducks and barely misses the tiny fist to his throat. He grabs Abigail’s wrist and pulls up, easily bringing her to her toes as she shrieks and begins trying to claw at his face. 

Dropping all pretense of saving the food he grabs her other wrist and pushes harder than he intends and in horror watches as Abigail tips head over heels over one of the sitting chairs. 

“Oh, Abigail! Are you alright?” Ichabod scrambles around the overturned furniture in efforts to help her to her feet. 

Abigail is already in a crouch and lands a good punch to his jaw before he gathers her up and throws them both onto the nearest soft surface, the bed. 

“Would you stop fighting,” he roars, actually having to exert effort to hold her slight form still. 

“You lettin’ me go, then?” she screams back.

Ichabod sputters. “What? No!”

“Then why would I stop fighting?” Abbie hisses, and continues to attempt to wrest herself from his grasp.

Ichabod holds her tighter, angry at the ruin of his shirt and how he smells of beef and veg. He glares down at the reason and finds himself swallowing. Abigail’s long ebony curls were loose from her customary crown of coils atop her head and she blows a harsh blast of air up to attempt to move the locks that have fallen across her forehead and eyes.

His eyes follow the graceful column of her throat as it works to swallow her ire, down to the crest of her collarbone to the mouthwatering swell of her bosom as its abundance spills over the top of her bodice, now also ruined by the smear of gravy and juices.

Abigail Mills is astonishingly lovely.

“Leave it,” he says. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

“Then don’t hurt me,” she retorts, shifting so she can get her legs out from beneath his. This causes Ichabod to fall into the generous gather of material between her legs and immediately Abbie stops fighting, eyes wide.

“If I let you go will you behave?”

“If by behave you mean take you down as if I were a man twice my size, yeah. I aim to behave,” Abbie mutters. 

Ichabod bites back a retort as he eases to his knees, pressure still on her wrists. 

“I am gonna let you go now.” Abbie merely stares back at him until he moves away and off the bed. 

“I dinnae expect this when I thought to bring you dinner,” he says as he takes stock in the mess they’ve made of the room. 

“I could say the same. I expected to return home after my trip to the market, instead I wake in an unfamiliar castle and Bram tells me it’s because you wish us wed.” Abigail sits up and glares at the mess on her dress. “And where are my pins? My hair is undone.”

“Bram has your pins,” Ichabod recalls. “Why did he feel he needed to remove them from your person?”

Abbie looks away and sighs. 

“Because I attempted to stab him. Twice,” she corrects. “And he knew I would use them to escape this place once given the chance.”

Ichabod cannot keep the awe and pride from his face as he gazes at her. Her ingenuity and tenacity calls to his own and he wishes he could take her right now, sauced or not. He attempts to think other thoughts to keep his body from betraying his mind. 

“You cannae escape,” he says.

“You can’t expect to keep me here. My family, my clan will come looking for me,” Abigail says. “Ichabod, what have you done?”

“Circumstances forced my hand,” he says, taking a step closer. Ichabod cheers inwardly when she doesn’t attempt to move away. “This is the only way you and I are to be wed.”

Abbie shakes her head slowly. 

“Ichabod, even if I _wanted_ to marry you, we cannae. Our clans are nae exactly friendly. This will nae solve anything. They will hunt you and they will kill you.”

“You would nae speak for me?” he asks.

Abbie scoffs. 

“Would I speak for my kidnapper?” she asks, pointing her finger at his chest. “You have taken me from my family and my home because you felt we had to be married. Did you think to ask me? Nay, you made the choice for me and now whatever happens, happens.”

“You don’t understand, I did what I had to,” Ichabod says. “You cannae tell me we dinnae have a connection. Every time we spoke tell me you couldn’t feel it in the air? This pull between us?”

He steps closer, causing Abbie to have to lift her head to look at him. 

“Tell me that during our talks, those poorly snatched opportunities for contact, that you dinnae yearn for the chance to be with me, to be mine.”

Abbie stares up at him, wanting to yell, scream, kick or do something to throw that blue eyed gaze from looking directly into her soul. 

“Damn you,” she mutters. “You have killed anything I could have felt for you, Ichabod Crane. I am nae some… some _object_ that can be decided upon without consultin’. I have thoughts and emotions of my own. I have a temperament of my own and expectations of my own and you just…” 

Abbie turns away with a shudder as she promises herself she won’t cry in front of this man. 

Ichabod’s heart thunders in his chest. 

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

“I say exactly what I mean, Ichabod Crane. Return me to my home and I willnae attack your person again.” 

He stares at her back with mounting anger. 

“Return you to your husband, Daniel?”

Abbie whirls around. “What are you talking about?”

Ichabod continues. 

“You think him a suitable match for you? He cannae handle your fire, woman! He cannae appreciate your mind and your mouth and…” 

Ichabod clears his throat as his mind travels down less savory paths. 

“You wish to marry him?” he asks lowly.

“I am marrying no one,” Abbie says. 

“You stand there and you claim to know your own mind but you have no idea about the reality of your situation. Clan Reynolds counts you as a boon to cement ties between your clans. Chief Reynolds intends to give you to his eldest son where I guarantee he will fill you with babies and let your mind go to rot.”

Abbie shakes her head incredulously. 

“You dinnae know Daniel,” she says. “And I have already told you I am nae getting married now or any time soon.”

Ichabod scoffs. 

“It must be nice, to live in such a bubble where one can do what one wants when one wants.”

“You would know, since you claim residence in that self-same bubble!” Abbie screams at him.

“I will tell you of your precious plans, _mo_ _gràdh_. Your father knows his clan doesn’t have enough men to keep his lands from the Reynolds at the north and the Parkers to the south. Since the clan Mills has decided we Cranes are the Devil incarnate who do you think he would make a deal with? Surely nae the Devil.” 

Abigail recalls certain furtive glances in her direction, conversations abruptly halted when she came into the clan’s great room. She had chalked it up to something she said or someone she had insulted; a trifle she was always in trouble for with her father and mother. But the guilt in her mother’s eye she couldn’t understand… 

“And so you thought you’d spare me my fate and take me for yourself?”

“I thought our regard for each other –”

Abigail shakes her head. “Our regard,” she repeats as she fights back tears. “There is no regard, Ichabod Crane. Leave me be.”

Ichabod draws himself up to full height and wants to shake some sense into her, show her that this is the best option for the both of them but as he watches her shoulders begin to shake and she hides her face behind her wild curls, his anger falls away and he feels flat and hopeless.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he says.

Abigail sniffs. 

“That makes the two of us then, don’t it,” she sobs.

Ichabod stalks from the room and locks it behind him, disappointment bitter at the back of his throat. He will try again in the light of the new day, when he can appeal to the logic that attracted him to her in the first place. He glances back at the door and closes his eyes against the sobs he hears, his heart hurting for his beloved. But he cannot comfort her because she won’t let him and with that thought he finds the strength to turn away.


	2. Kicking and Screaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod finds Abbie has no fucks to give.

_“He’s still staring.”_

_Abbie pops a cube of cheese into her mouth and shrugs a shoulder._

_“Why should I care?” she asks. “Because he’s Bram’s friend?” she teases._

_Katrina blushes and attempts to hide her smile behind her tankard of beer._

_“This isn’t about me. Bram has already made his move and soon he’ll speak to my father.”_

_Abbie glances over at Bram, across the room holding court with a few warriors from various clans, all bound together in brotherly cheer due to the inclement weather. Clans far and wide come to the winter market in Daer for special items normally not available during the rest of the year. Getting stranded is just something one risked depending on what one was looking for._

_The man with Bram, dressed in the same tartan, does not join in with the revelry. Instead, he spends his time nursing his drink and staring at Abbie. She’s glad for her dark skin because the feel of his eyes on her body makes her flush with heat. She touches the side of her neck gently and looks back at her friend._

_“Do you want me to ask his name?” Katrina offers. “Maybe introduce the two of you?”_

_“I know you’re nae from around here but the Clan Crane and the Clan Mills aren’t on the best of speaking terms right now,” Abbie mutters. “The last thing I need my father to find out is that I was encouraging the attentions of one of Orrin’s scum, no matter how interesting his face may be.”_

_Katrina winces._

_“Scum is a strong word. You don’t even know him.”_

_“He doesn’t know me and yet he still stares.”_

_Abbie shakes her head and sneaks a glance over again; to her disappointment Bram has managed to pull the currently unnamed Crane into the conversation and the boisterous group is now silent as they listen intently to his words._

_A smile tugs at her lips as she watches him command attention as easily as breathing. Abbie wonders what they’re speaking of; probably something they’ve deemed too indelicate for a woman to hear or understand._

_Men._

_“That’s why I’m nae wed,” she says to her friend._

_“Because gorgeous men like to stare at you? How is that a problem?” Katrina asks._

_“They don’t see me as a person. They see me as Ezra’s daughter and a way to get into Mills lands. We’ve got the best hunting grounds and farmland and any clan I marry into will get to hunt and till. That’s what they see when they look at me,” Abbie says._

_Katrina reaches out and grasps Abbie’s hand sadly._

_“That and your magnificent bosom,” she says, breaking into giggles as Abbie laughs and swats at her._

_“Why are we friends, Tanner?” Abbie sighs and rolls her eyes._

_“Dunno, but I’m thankful every day.”_

_Abbie knows the Englishwoman hasn’t had the easiest time since her family had to relocate; what with Scots not being exactly welcoming to the English. Abbie, by virtue of her family’s ancestry, knows a bit about not quite fitting in and the girls were fast friends, growing into magnificent beauties in their own rights._

_“I’m going to get us something more substantial than melon and cheese,” Abbie says as she dusts her hands of imaginary dirt and moves to the bar. The barman is further down pouring up a group of silent old warriors, probably toasting to some fallen comrade. The man’s wife is busy grabbing plates from other tables. Abbie catches her eye and gets a nod, a signal for patience._

_Abbie sighs and leans against the bar, resigned to wait for her dinner._

_“What has one as beautiful as ye so down?”_

Without fail _, Abbie thinks as she turns to find an older man with a straggly blond beard and two missing teeth grinning in her face._

_“Nothing, just waiting on dinner,” she says._

_“What brings ye to Daer, lovely one?” Blondie struggles into the space next to her and Abbie is forced to adjust her stance so she’s not plastered to the man’s side. He reeks of mead and ale and the burnt ends of venison. Discreetly she puts her hand to her mouth and glances away until the nausea subsides._

_“Trade, good sir,” Abbie murmurs. “As what I thought drew us all.”_

_Blondie laughs loudly, hitting the bar with a meaty fist._

_“Yer of clan Mills, are ye nae?” he asks, glancing down at the tartan sash across her bodice, lingering on the tops of her breasts with an undisguised leer._

_“I am.” Abbie shifts away a little more and laments it finds her no further away from Blondie’s girth._

_“I am Fergus McLachlan of Clan MacDougal. Ye look like ye could birth some babes and still give a man a good ride. I’ve got my sons with me. If yer Da’s here we can make a trade and leave at first decent thaw. Our seat might no be as lavish as Mill’s Valley, but MacDougal Fields ain’t nothin’ ta turn yer nose up at,” he says._

_Abbie takes a deep breath, eyes narrowing as Fergus’s eyes remain riveted to her chest._

_“MacDougal,” she begins, and yelps when he grabs her waist and pulls her against him._

_“Call me Fergus,” he grumbles as he leans in to get a good smell. “Ye smell like sweet wind. My Bryce’ll be taken by ye, no doubt.”_

_“If you don’t unhand me you won’t have a hand,” Abbie hisses as she reaches back and pries his thick fingers from her backside. McLachlan goes red in the face and Abbie prepares herself to land a few blows to convince him when a long-fingered hand lands on Fergus’ shoulder._

_“I think the lady has rebuffed your advances, Ferg. Why don’t you save face and bow out gracefully before I find our deal has soured?”_

_Abbie wrenches herself from the older man’s grasp and sets her clothing to rights while Fergus glares at the interloper. He is taller than both Abbie and Fergus and looms with a vaguely threatening air, forcing McLachlan to slink away. When Abbie properly looks at his face she realizes it’s the Crane who’s been staring at her since she and Katrina arrived in the tavern._

_“You.” Abbie stares up at him and curses the fact he’s more handsome up close. His face is long and hawkish with an impressively expressive brow, but what draws her in is the fire behind his blue eyes. They stare back into hers, not at her chest. She feels her heartbeat pick up in spite of her irritation._

_“Aye. Allow me to apologize on behalf of Fergus; he doesn’t know how to comport himself around a beautiful woman. My name is Ichabod Crane of Clan Crane.”_

_Ichabod gives a flourish of a bow and Abbie has to look away, delighted and embarrassed as a few people glance up to see what’s going on._

_“Grace Mills, daughter of Chief Ezra of clan Mills. Thank you for your assistance,” she says as she bobs a quick curtsey in response._

_“Grace? Did I mishear when you were summoned by the name Abigail?” Ichabod asks curiously._

_Abbie looks at him strangely._

_“My given name is Grace, though when one is sufficiently familiar with me I allow them to call me by my middle name, hence the Abigail.”_

_“Then I look forward to the day when Abigail tumbles from my lips with ease,” he replies._

_“I see you have much faith in your ability to hold my interest, Ichabod Crane. Smarter than you have attempted only to fail when they find my mind works as well as my mouth.”_

_Abbie feels herself flush when Ichabod casually drops his gaze from her eyes to her mouth and back up._

_“If your mind is half as well constructed as the glory in which you use to speak, then I may have found worthy company,” he murmurs._

_Completely shocked, Abbie bursts into delighted laughter._

~*~

Ichabod raps against the door thrice more when he hears no response. 

“Abigail, I know you have nae left this room; the window is too high and you would break your neck and we both know you are nae so cavalier with your life as to risk it!” 

He slams his fist against the door to punctuate his point but he hears nothing. 

“You have forced me to let myself in,” he says loudly, attempting again to give her a chance to be decent. 

Women, Ichabod grouses. No matter how logical one tries to be – 

The door swings open and reveals… no one.

The bed looks as if someone attacked it; the linens have been completely removed… Had she slept on the flagstone floor? Surely not. He moves further into the room and removes the heavy blanket and assorted bedclothes and puts them back on the bed. She’s not _under_ them… 

Ichabod turns in the room and a flutter of material catches his eye. 

The window is open and there’s material wedged between two of the stones at the bottom of the window. Ichabod rushes to the window and leans out; she couldn’t have possibly… But even – 

He reaches the window and leans out, shocked at the length of fabric dangling a reasonable height from the ground. Perfectly reasonable if you’re willing to risk injury. But- 

The barest of a rustle behind him pulls Ichabod from the window and he looks back; there’s no one in the room with him but his instincts are screaming at him. He rushes down the stairs and encounters the second door shut; he’d left it open when came up the stairs.

Ichabod is awestruck by her nerve just long enough to realize Abigail has well and truly escaped. The smile falls off his face as he rushes down to the kitchens. 

“Bram! Abigail is attempting to flee!” he hollers as he skids to a stop in the kitchen doorway.

Bram swallows his gruel unhurriedly. 

“She doesna know Duhnorum Valley; the trails twist and turn so much she’ll end up back here before she finds the way out. Remain calm, Ichabod. Yer bird cannae go far on foot.”

“I’d rather nae risk her coming to a treacherous part of the river and attempting to swim across,” Ichabod says. “Quit stuffing your gob and come help me find her.”

Bram glares at him with his one good eye and shoves another spoonful into his mouth before rising. 

“Ye’d think she’s _my_ wife with the work I’ve put in,” he mutters as he follows Ichabod out through the servant’s entry toward the stables. 

There’s commotion inside and both men glance at each other before taking off at a run. The stable doors are open and the lone horse left, in spite of Ichabod’s fervent prayers, is Bram’s good-natured stallion, Ruby.

“She’s on Cadeyrn,” he whispers. 

~*~

Of course this wasn’t going to be easy, Abbie grouses as she skids into the stables. There are two horses, a glorious bay charger and a red stallion. Speed or power? Good. She steps to the closest, the red, but he looks at her disinterestedly and continues to chew his food. 

The bay, huge and powerfully built, snorts and paws at the hay, throwing his head and staring at her. He looks like he wants to run as much as she does. She smiles and holds out the small apple she’d managed to snag the night before just after punching Bram in the eye. 

“Hello gorgeous. Do you want to go for a ride? We must be quick if we’re to do this,” Abbie whispers as she offers the fruit. The bay glares at her hand and delicately plucks the whole apple from her palm and crushes it happily. 

“Good boy, good boy.” The saddle is a massive thing sitting on a post and after two tries Abbie has to abandon the idea of lifting it and using the horse bareback.

She hasn’t ridden a horse this large without a saddle and one of the clan’s horsemen at her back, but if the horse remains as nice as he’s been so far, perhaps she can manage it. Abbie climbs onto the rail and walks close enough to place a kiss on the beast’s large head. 

“Be nice,” she whispers, and jump sprawls onto his back. 

The horse doesn’t even react as she struggles to use his mane to pull herself up, and Abbie begins to rethink her choice when her legs can barely straddle his muscled back. 

“Oh god,” she murmurs as she tangles her fingers in his mane and nudges her heels. “Let’s go!”

The horse leaps high over the rail like it’s nothing, and runs as if chased. Abbie swallows her shriek and holds on for dear life as she thunders down the road, no longer in control of the situation. 

It’s like nothing she’s ever experienced before and Abbie is barely able to hold on as she’s bounced about on his back. The silk of his mane isn’t enough to anchor her and Abbie feels herself sliding without anything to stop her.

She will die like this, Abbie thinks. And for what?

“Cadeyrn, halt!”

Abbie screams as she is thrown over the top of the horse’s head. 

_Cadeyrn, that’s your name_ , she thinks, and hits the ground in a tight tuck. The shift she’s wearing gets caught under her heel, causing her to sprawl inelegantly on a fortunately placed patch of marsh grass. Winded, she doesn’t bother to get up so quickly as the once again placid animal noses near her head as if to tell her their adventure was exciting.

And now--apparently--over. 

Ichabod and Bram dismount Ruby and rush over, Bram nudging Cadeyrn aside and Ichabod sinking to his knees beside Abigail. She’s alive and breathing and he cannot believe it. His hands shaking, he touches her temple and feels no wetness and sees no red. 

“I’m uninjured,” Abigail says as if such an occurrence isn’t a miracle in and of itself. “Seems my pride broke my fall.”

“Your… your pride? Your pride almost cost you your life! Lie still, woman,” he shouts as Abbie attempts to move.

Abbie glares at him but obeys as Ichabod continues his examination. Nothing seems broken as he moves her limbs gently, but the true test is to have her stand. Ichabod rises and holds out his hand but Abigail looks away and rolls to her feet on her own. 

“I told you, I’m fine,” she says, and attempts to bat away the dirt from her shift. 

“Seems ye have this well in hand.” Bram clears his throat and nudges Cadeyrn toward Ichabod. 

“I’m gonna head back,” he says, resolutely not looking at Abigail as he swings back onto his horse and moves away at a trot. Ichabod stares after his friend for a moment before he looks back at Abigail and finds himself robbed of speech for an entirely different reason.

The sunlight falls through the simple shift she wears and renders it practically translucent; the curve of her backside delineated through the thin, white material. Ichabod takes a step toward her and she turns, her torso aglow in light and the exact shape of her breast is revealed to him, its devastating fullness topped with turgid peaks that beckon for his mouth as they strain against the soft cloth. 

“Damn you, woman,” he says weakly, his fingers yearning to touch the embarrassment of riches just beneath her shift. “How you confound me.”

“Then you know a quarter of what I feel,” Abbie retorts hotly.

Ichabod straightens and tries not to stare. 

“You will return to the castle.”

“What if I won’t?” Abbie asks. “What if I have decided to continue along this path and to my home?”

“This is your home now,” Ichabod says quietly. “Why can’t you understand this? You are nae some half-brained twit. You have been gone almost two days.”

“Time makes no difference; I will be welcomed back home.” Abbie crosses her arms beneath her chest and Ichabod almost throws himself upon her mercy. 

“And what will you return to? Your home, yes, but to the same life you are used to? Your purity will be called into question. Your father willnae be able to use your marriage to his advantage and you will be presented with choices that are beneath you. Offers that will demean you,” Ichabod says hotly.

“ _You_ have doomed me to this!” Abbie screams and launches herself at him. It’s ineffectual; with the combination of lack of food and sleep and the recede of adrenaline she is almost woozy as she collapses in his arms. “I will walk back to the castle, release me.”

Ichabod looks to the heavens for patience. 

“You can barely stand. You will ride Cadeyrn as I walk beside.” 

Cadeyrn’s ears perk at the sound of his name and he ambles over to nudge his face gently against Abbie’s shoulder. She reaches out and runs her hand down the length of his nose and Ichabod is taken at how _tiny_ she is compared to just his horse.

And she rode him as far as she did without a saddle?

“I cannae ride him alone,” she admits as she pulls away from his grasp. Ichabod resists the urge to keep her close and considers it progress they’re not yelling at each other. 

“Then I will ride with you as long as you promise nae to attempt another escape,” he says sternly.

Abbie looks and places her hands on her hips. 

“I promise nothing,” she says.

“Must you fight me on everything?” Ichabod is forced to ask.

“Must you make everything into a fight?” Abbie counters.

Ichabod stalks over to her, making her fall back in apprehension. He grasps her around the waist and pauses when he realizes his fingertips touch. It forcefully reminds him to be gentle as he lifts her onto Cadeyrn’s back. Ichabod tries not to smile at the way she looks like a small child on her father’s horse. 

“If I see you smile once I will kick you,” she says lowly, but makes no move to do so now.

Ichabod smooths his grin and inclines his head before jumping up and onto his horse. Cadeyrn was from a long line of horses bred specifically for the tall men of his family. He hadn’t had anyone with him on his steed since he learned to ride on his own, and Ichabod is surprised at how well Abigail fits nestled against his front, her soft black hair in a fuzzy braid hanging down her back.

He wonders how she looks with it down and freshly brushed, a smile for him as he returns to her arms after a long day of tending to the clan’s needs and monitoring their lands. The trot causes pleasant little tremors to jolt through Abigail and she digs her fingers into his kilt over his thighs. Ichabod’s height affords him a glorious barely obstructed view of Abigail’s bosom as it bounces and as much as Ichabod wishes he was above the pull of the flesh he cannot look away.

He begins to harden as the motion of the horse conveniently lends itself to the fantasy of motion of another kind. They are on his bed and he is between her thighs, rocking into her gently as Abigail moans, urging him to sink into her more and more. He’s brought back to reality by her fingers digging into his thighs; Ichabod is fully hard and tucked tightly against her magnificent rear.

Ichabod tightens his grip in Cadeyrn’s mane because if he lets go he’s going to grab her hips and pull Abigail back against him, desperate to soothe the ache between his legs. He can hear her breathing shallowly, her chest heaving and inflaming him further. Abigail gasps quietly as her head lolls against his chest, revealing the column of her throat to him. 

He removes one hand and encircles her waist, pulling her tightly against him, groaning as she presses back against his groin. How can just this almost bring him to the edge? They round the bend and the castle comes into view and Abigail removes his arm from around her waist, still breathing heavily and bouncing against his groin. The sensation of wool sliding against his cock is a torture he can’t take and he immediately dismounts; it’s either that, or rutting against Abigail until he spilled himself gratefully.

No, he’s not a beast and she deserves better.

Ichabod looks up at her and finds her face flushed and slightly breathless, her tongue darting out to moisten her lush mouth. He glances down at the evidence of her arousal and longs to suckle her peaks until she pushes her bountiful mounds into his hands, desperate for the touch of his tongue.

Surreptitiously he palms his groin, biting back a hiss at how hot and swollen he feels through the fabric of his kilt. There’s no way he can remove Abigail from the horse without her noticing. It’s not going away, leaving Ichabod with no choice. 

“We will have servants arrive within the next few days. Until they arrive you’ll have to bathe in the lake,” he says, desperate to speak of anything to distract him from ache between his legs. 

Abbie swallows and looks away. 

“I have no plans to blindly obey; I will bathe in the confines of my room or nae at all,” she says, crossing her arms.

Anger surges through Ichabod and he pulls Abigail from Cadeyrn and stalks down the path toward the stables. 

“You give me no choice,” he says, drowning in her scent as he holds her close in order to keep himself from throwing her to the ground and making her scream his name.

Abbie clutches at his head and kicks as she looks around. 

“Are you going to make me stay in the stable?” she asks, astonished and incredulous until they pass the turnoff and continue, down past another entrance into the castle. Ichabod steps through the short foliage and the land gives way to a gentle, large pool of water, fed at one end by a small, jutting waterfall.

“Do you swim?” he rasps, trying his best not to look down at her.

Abbie glares up at him. 

“No,” she spits.

Ichabod glares and throws her into the water, the petty part of his personality cheering as she sputters mightily, shrieking before she wobbles to her feet, the water lapping at her chest.

“You… beast!” she screams, wiping the water out of her eyes. “I told you I couldn’t swim!”

“And I recalled you spoke of when you were the lone swimmer of your clan to swim the length of Mills River, even the treacherous parts,” he says smugly.

Abbie glares at him then chuckles. 

“I had forgotten we even talked about that,” she shivers, awkwardly moving through the water.

“You can stand nearly anywhere in the lake but it’s very shallow just beneath the waterfall. I wouldn’t suggest diving from it,” Ichabod advises, remembering the way he received the small scar on his face one young summer. 

He goes to tell her about it when Abigail turns in the water, releasing her hair from its bound braid. Her shift is plastered against her chest and may as well not even exist. Ichabod swallows and his cock swells so quickly it wrests a sound from his throat as Abbie ducks beneath the water. When she comes back up he has to tighten his fist in the wool of his kilt in order not to take himself in hand. 

“I’ll leave you to it and return in a while,” he strangles out, turning on his heel before Abigail can respond.

He makes it just beyond the foliage before weakness gets the better of him and he climbs into the tree next to the stable, easing himself onto the thatched roof. From his vantage point he’s able to see the lake just in front of the waterfall, and the small sandy beach on the other side.

Desperately he searches for Abigail’s small form and groans when she comes into view, pulling her shift up and over her head and throwing it onto the rocks beside the waterfall. She ducks under, letting the water run down her delectable body as Ichabod widens his legs and leans back, enjoying the heft of his cock between his legs before he touches it.

He stares, watching as she rubs her small hands all over her body, dipping beneath the water to wash what he cannot see. Ichabod begins to stroke, wondering how Abigail would touch him. Sure strokes? Gentle, shy ones?

Ichabod groans and establishes his pace when Abigail cups her full breasts and squeezes them, making him squeeze his cock as he moans. He feels mad, desperate to fill his hands with her ripe curves as he brings her to heights of ecstasy over and over again. 

“Abigail,” he grunts, thumbing the moisture pearling at the head of his cock and spreading it eagerly. Ichabod thrusts into his own hand, chasing something that feels nothing like his own hand.

There’s splashing and Ichabod is again riveted as Abigail climbs onto a flat outcrop of rock, her body glistening and fully nude. Unable to breathe, he watches her spread her shift and lie upon it and Ichabod gasps and begins fucking into his own hand as he watches Abigail pinch her nipples and he strains to hear if she moans.

At first there’s only a slight gasp but when her hand delves between her thighs her cries ring full-bodied and clear at her first touch. Ichabod is transfixed, watching her tiny hand slide past the ebon curls of her apex and into her cleft, the other pulling at her nipples. Is that what she likes, a sure touch, a strong suckle? Ichabod licks his hips and unconsciously mirrors her movements, stroking and imagining doing a better job than her dainty fingers of bringing her relief. He matches her stroke for stroke, greedily watching her breasts as they bounce and her hips as they move beneath her hand, desperate for something more. Suddenly she rears up, shuddering and crying out. 

“God, Abigail,” he groans and spills over his hand, biting back a roar as he watches Abigail pressing her hand hard between her thighs as she rides out the wave as she falls back onto her shift, satiated. Long, thick ropes of come blast from his cock with every stroke, Ichabod lost in the fantasy of Abigail impaled on his member, sheathing him as she shudders through her completion. 

Immediately upon regaining his breath Ichabod feels horribly. He’s used his beloved Abigail without her knowledge to relieve himself and was even damned to the memory of how her beauty transcends sanity itself as she reaches climax.

His relief feels ineffective as he continues to watch Abigail drying herself in the sun, a small hand on her bare torso as she slips into sweet slumber. How he wishes to be down there with her, to hold her close and slumber with her. Angry with himself and his entire situation Ichabod slips from his position to give Abigail true privacy.

~*~

When Ichabod returns, Abbie has had enough time to braid her hair into the convenient single thick braid and despite damp hair she’s almost completely dry… save between her legs. The little diddle at the lake did nothing but fan the flames stoked to a roaring fire this morning.

Silently she follows him back to the castle, unable to help admiring his long legs beneath his kilt. 

As skinny as he is there’s a surprising strength about him, and she Abbie thinks back to when he lifted her onto the horse like she was made of nothing – Abbie wonders if he could hold her against the wall and her steps falter when she imagines the sensation of him sinking inside of her inch by inch. 

It’s a near thing, but she bites back her moan, in a daze as she continues to follow him up the stairs and back to her room. Ichabod turns to her finally, glancing down at her nipples, visible through her shift and glancing away. Part of Abbie wants him to look and part of her wants to scratch that look from his face, like she’s hurting _him_.

“Your room is a mess,” he says, his fingers twitching at his side as he stares at the mess she made. 

“Pity,” she says with no real venom. 

Abbie is hungry and sleepy and exhaustion is winning out. Ichabod looks at her and looks away again, color high on his cheeks. It’s almost like he’s afraid to look at her. She glances down at his hands, and the thought of his long, dexterous fingers and his intense focus every time they spoke (all four times) makes her tingle.

 

He says something but the roaring in her ears drowns him out until he steps up to her, reaching for the hem of her sleeve. Abbie has to drop her head back to look up at him fully; he towers over her and reminds her how tiny she actually is but with him… she never feels threatened, no matter how much she tries to push him.

“Are you alright?” 

The concern in his voice makes Abbie want to melt. She’s tired. Tired of fighting and it’s only been a day, how can she continue this battle? Abbie wonders how easy it would be to let him kiss her; she knows he wants to. If he were any other man she knows he would have done so already. But at that thought her anger rushes back and she removes her arm from Ichabod’s grasp. 

“I’m tired,” she says. “Please leave me, Ichabod.”

Ichabod opens his mouth – to say what he’s unsure, but he knows in his soul he doesn’t want to leave her company just now. The look in her eye makes him swallow and nod. 

“Upon the morrow, Abigail,” he murmurs, and does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like, this is sort of the view Ichabod has when he's on Cadeyrn with Abbie. http://kohthefacedealer.tumblr.com/image/130893934582


	3. Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The body always knows when it's hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be some smut.

_Humming happily, Abbie covers the bulb in fresh loam, happy to have her hand in the dirt for a few minutes of solitude. She reaches for her basket to choose another bulb when she feels the eyes of someone behind her._

_She stills, breathing deeply. No one disturbs her in her private garden. Is it one of the children, being naughty?_

_“I suggest you come out,” she says, continuing with her bulb placement. “You shoudna be here.”_

_“And you shoudna be here alone.”_

_Abbie whirls around – that is not a child but the deep timbre of a grown man. He steps from the shadow, blue eyes piercing as he stands before her and offers his hand. His tartan marks him as rival clan, and resolutely Abbie does not accept as she struggles to disengage her skirts and rise on her own terms._

_“Who are you and what do you want?”_

_He says nothing, and Abbie holds her breath as he reaches out and gently eases a bit of black earth from where it landed on the swell of her bosom._

_“Never have I been so jealous of a speck of dirt,” he rumbles._

_Abbie swallows and attempts to step away but he follows, this nameless man with his captivating blue eyes. He looks at her like he’s starving and he plans on eating her. The thrill at the thought makes her touch her neck and look away._

_“Get out,” she whispers._

_“I dinna think I will,” he says._

_“I will scream,” Abbie promises._

_The man, so much taller than her, leans down so they are sharing the same air._

_“Aye, I hope you do.”_

_And with that kisses her deeply, like she’s never been kissed before._

_Abbie responds, her body suddenly aflame for this man and his touch. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, flush against her body. Eager, she finds that everywhere her hands land is sinewy muscle and broad shoulders. All she can do is hold on as he bears down on her, pulling them both to the ground._

_He lets her breathe but his hot mouth travels down her neck, making her gasp and squirm as he marks her for all the world to see. She exults and bares her neck, desperate for a sign she is claimed as his._

_“Oh, please, please,” Abbie whimpers, unsure of what she’s asking for when his nose skims the tops of her breasts. With nimble fingers he begins to unlace her bodice, baring her thin blue shift as he bites gently at the skin above her breasts._

_“So beautiful. You are mine,” Ichabod rumbles, flinging her bodice over his shoulder as Abbie nods._

_“Yours, please,” she babbles, and cries out as he begins to suckle a painfully taut peak, gently kneading her other breast. Everywhere he touches is like oil on a flame as her back arches, encouraging him to suck harder._

_She wants more and is squirming for it, her thighs rubbing together wetly, so much so that Ichabod hears it. Abbie looks away, embarrassed and he lifts his head to gently turn her gaze back to him._

_“Dinna ever be embarrassed about how much you want me. Do you feel how much I want you?”_

_He takes her tiny hand and guides it to his swollen girth. They gasp simultaneously as Abbie grips him through his tartan, her heart beating faster at the size she finds._

_“You are – I have –” Abbie blinks as her skirts and underskirt are suddenly gone, as are Ichabod’s shirt and kilt. They are naked together and he is between her legs, kissing down her exposed abdomen._

_“Oohh,” she whimpers as he moves further south._

_“Can I taste you, mo gràdh?” he rumbles against her pelvis, and Abbie nods enthusiastically._

_It is all the warning she has before he throws her legs over his shoulders and sucks on her button. Abbie does scream, long and loud, gasping and crying as she chases the sensation of his tongue on her most private of parts. He puts his tongue to such good use she thinks she could go no further for the rest of her life and be satisfied._

_“Oh, Ichabod, please,” she sobs, grabbing at her own breast until his large, callused hands rise to roll her mounds in his expert grasp. It’s too much – the foreign touch and his expert tongue unravel Abbie as she screams her approval, going hoarse as she loses the ability to do anything but flail beneath Ichabod’s tongue._

_“Enough,” she cries, turning away from him, trembling and sensitive._

_Ichabod slides up her body and kisses her deeply. She tastes herself on his tongue and her core throbs again._

_“I will have you now, Abigail,” he pants against her mouth and settles between her thighs._

_Abbie scratches at his shoulders when something blunt and hot presses against her, both nervous and excited._

_“I’ve never,” she falters and swallows. “I have never –”_

_“Aye,” Ichabod groans, and slides in._

Abbie gasps, sitting up and looking around wildly.

It’s dark now, so dark that when Abbie closes her eyes again there’s little difference. Her heart is pounding in her chest and she’s uncomfortably wet, her body thrumming with a pale echo of an orgasm. She throws off the covers and tries to cool off but it’s not happening fast enough. Abbie reaches down and hisses at how sensitive she is; it only takes a few soft slides against the side of her clit for her body to tighten and achieve sweet release.

But she doesn’t want to come by her own hand. She wants someone else’s hands on her body and inside of her, making her feel good. Abbie pulls her hand from her thighs and slides out of bed, sighing at the coolness of the stone floor against the soles of her feet.

Her stomach grumbles loudly and Abbie wonders when the last time was she actually had a meal. Surely this place had to have food if Ichabod and Bram insist on remaining here. She glances at the pile of fabric beneath the window, illuminated by the faint silvery glow of the moon and mourns her dress.

 _Stupid_ , Abbie thinks as she gropes over to the table and the candlestick. The fire is mere embers but it doesn’t take long to get it bright enough to light the candle, and Abbie journeys from her room for the first time without the intent to escape.

~*~

Ichabod hasn’t felt like this since his transition into manhood; needing to frig himself repeatedly before he can sleep. He wakes again in the middle of the night, unrepentantly hard once more. It doesn’t take anything to imagine Abigail before him in all her glory, bare and insistent upon his touch. 

He comes as hard as every other time, her name in his throat as he erupts hotly against his hand and thigh. Ichabod attempts to return to slumber but his stomach decides to protest his lack of dinner loudly. Eventually he cannot avoid it any longer and dresses to cobble something together in the kitchens.

Ichabod doesn’t expect to hear activity in the kitchens, nor to have his stomach growl at the amazing smells coming from the hearth. He slows just before the door, peeking around and blinking to see if his eyes could dispel the dream before him.

Abigail is before the hearth, fire roaring as she stirs a small pot of something with an aroma that is rich and spicy. She doesn’t see him – she can’t – because she looks as she did before he brought her here, happy and captivating as she hums something while she pulls a small pan from the ovens. 

Ichabod clears his throat and steps inside the kitchen, frowning regretfully when Abigail squeals and whirls around, shocked at his presence. 

“One should hang a bell ‘round your neck,” she says breathlessly.

“I didna mean to startle you. I heard something and I came to investigate. When I saw it was you I didna want you to think I was…” He straightens and clasps his hands behind his back.

“Spying?” Abigail says, almost like teasing. “So you heard something from your room?”

Ichabod hesitates and shakes his head. 

“I hadn’t had supper,” he admits, mouth watering again at the fragrant meat resting in the pan.

“And you thought you’d come and partake of what I’d made?” she asks, her expression strange in the flickering light of the hearth. 

“I didna have that in mind when I arrived,” Ichabod says, attempting to remain calm. “Though I would never be against dining with you, Abigail.” 

“Nary a thought, that perhaps I have no desire to feed my captor?” Abbie asks, triumphantly watching multiple layers of rage flit across his face before it sours into a spectacularly stony ill-feigned indifference. 

“I’ll have you know I have managed to feed myself even before you deigned to come down from your tower and I can continue to do so. I have never been withheld food from my own fields,” he says as he stalks to the larder.

He glares at his choices; nothing but salted fish and oat rolls if he doesn’t wish to actually cook. The prospect of standing over the hearth while Abigail feasts on her well-made dinner eats away at his appetite and he’s almost convinced he can wait until morn, when Bram will make sausage and gruel. But his stomach growls again and he curses his body and its processes because surely Abigail has heard it from across the room. 

“Ichabod.”

He starts at the sound of his name and resolves not to turn around. He will not jump at her every whim, regardless of how he yearns for her affection. Pride prickles hotly at the back of his neck and wars with the lack of food in his stomach. 

“Ichabod, please.”

Ichabod turns and looks everywhere before he can settle on Abigail again. She appears to be somewhat contrite and he becomes aware of how combative he appears before such a tiny woman. He forces himself to relax as he stares back at her expectantly. 

“I have no quarrel sharing my meal with you. Honestly, I made too much. I think I let my stomach dictate my portions,” she says, looking down at her hands. 

Ichabod doesn’t know what to think. How can someone bring him from anger to tenderness so quickly? Confounding, confounding woman. 

“I dinna wish to impose,” he says in light of nothing else to say.

Abbie glares at him briefly and shakes her head. 

“What am I to do with you?” she mutters. “Perhaps you can reach the plates?” she asks as she busies to complete the meal. 

“This room was stocked by giants,” she sniffs before going back to the oven to remove fresh bread.

Ichabod’s mouth waters behind his smile as he goes to the shelf and removes two plates and two tankards. 

“Everything’s of a height for normal-sized individuals,” he says, bringing the dishes to the long prep table before the oven. He takes a moment to examine the tender sirloin steak and curious looking bread. 

“Is this the Mills bread?”

Abbie glances over from the pot at the hearth and nods.

“I’ve only seen it; one of the various petty things between our clans was a lack of your wondrously fine flours.”

“Luckily I had some with me… before I came.” Abbie shakes her head and sticks her thumb in her mouth with a hum. “We’ve missed out on your cuts of beef. We get pork and fowl, venison and seafood of impeccable quality. Beef? Generally, considerably tougher than this. I saw it and couldna resist.” 

She presents him with a knife, across her hands. He steps back, eyeing her warily. Abbie laughs, she can’t help it. 

“Canna a Mills and a Crane call a truce?”

Ichabod squares his shoulders and looks down his nose at her, a small smile tugging his lips. 

“A truce would be beneficial,” he admits. “What are the terms, Mills?”

“I can be cordial,” Abbie says. “Can you say the same?”

“I am known for my charm,” Ichabod says. “Anything else?” 

“I promise nae to attempt to harm your person during this meal. Acceptable terms?”

“Acceptable,” he agrees.

“Good. I assume you are as starved as I am,” she says, and lifts the carving knife again.

Ichabod nods and bows with a flourish before accepting the knife, smiling at the laugh he manages to pull from Abigail. It’s with a contented heart he carves up generous portions of the sirloin and places them on their plate. Beside him Abbie carves up impossibly soft pillows of bread, pouring a bit of unfamiliar oil on top. 

“What is that?” he asks, plucking the dish from where she places it on the table and sniffing it. “Olive oil and… what is that spice?” he asks.

“I couldna find any butter or salted cream, so this is the next best thing. You’re smelling rosemary, salt and a hint of pepper. We have different types that compliment what is being served. Do you have a preference?”

Ichabod draws up to his full height self-consciously. 

“I defer to your good taste,” he says. “I am unfamiliar in this particular area. I hadn’t realized we neglected to bring butter,” he admits.

“‘Tis fine. What will we drink with dinner?”

“Ale,” Ichabod says, immediately more comfortable. “Do you require any additional assistance?”

Abbie shakes her head, placing another full portion of bread and meat upon a plate before taking it to the pot on the hearth. Dark brown gravy and veg are ladled over the meat and Ichabod has to close his eyes when his stomach growls again loudly. 

“I will pour,” he mutters, anything to keep his mind from the food until he is able to eat. 

He takes the tankards and fills them to the brim from the cask in the corner, and sets Abigail’s drink down before her food, noting the liberally portioned plate sits before his place at the table. She watches him as he sits at the bench across from her and cuts into her food but does not eat until Ichabod does. 

He has to close his eyes at the succulence of the meat and thick gravy, perfectly seasoned and incredibly tender. The potato is soft and collapses without much prodding of his tongue let alone chewing. This is all before the bread. He tears off a serving and sops up some of the gravy before tasting it. 

The amazement must show on his face because Abigail looks away, obviously pleased as she hides her smile behind her tankard. They’re both so hungry and the food is so good they are able to eat in silence, stealing small glances at each other when they pause to drink. Abbie finishes before him, satiated and content to remain and nurse the rest of her drink as Ichabod powers through his double helping of everything. The last scrape of the fork makes her feel inordinately proud. 

“One wouldna have to wash your dish to return it to the cupboard,” she says, running her finger around the rim of her cup.

“Aye,” Ichabod breathes happily.

“Do you want more?” Abbie finds herself offering. “I made quite a bit.”

“I think I could gorge myself on this meal for the rest of my days, but my body would protest most ardently,” he admits.

Abbie snorts her laugh. 

“Well we canna have that, can we?” she asks. 

“No, shoudna risk it. We’re properly civilized people,” he rejoins. “Abigail, I didna know you were so gifted in the kitchen. Truly you are a master.”

Abbie doesn’t bother to hide her smile. 

“You speak as if you dinna consider cooking to be dominion of my gender.”

“I dinna,” Ichabod agrees. “I love my mother, I truly do, but she canna create a single palatable dish. We have staff for such things so it is of no consequence. I do enjoy food and our head cook Moire didna mind my questions as I watched her create wonderful meals for my family.” He wipes his mouth and sighs happily. “Were you… trained to cook?”

Abbie shakes her head. 

“It’s more like a passion. My mother likes to cook for my father, though we have staff for the household. She says a husband should feel his wife’s love for him in something special she does for him. So often my mother has a dish specifically for him that no one else gets to eat.”

Ichabod wishes to reach across and take her small hand in his when her fond amusement begins to fade. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks as he feels the mood slip away.

“How I won’t see my family again. How Jenny makes me want to pull my hair out and yet I miss her most of all,” Abbie says, her grip tightening on her cup. 

“I’m sorry,” Ichabod says, and he truly is.

“You… How can you sit there and say that?” Abbie asks, truly wondering. She doesn’t even have the energy to be angry right now. “You’re the reason I’m here.”

“I’m nae,” Ichabod snaps, and forces himself to lower his voice. “I am nae the _only_ reason why you’re here,” he amends. 

“Speak plainly, Crane,” she says. “Because at last check it was _your_ man who took me from the market. It is _your_ tower I am a prisoner in, away from my family. So how can this be laid at anyone else’s feet?” Abbie asks, slamming her hand on the table. 

“All actions have consequences, Abigail. The enmity between our clans wouldna allow us to marry; there’d be war first,” he says.

“I thought you were different,” Abbie says mournfully. “When we spoke… I looked forward to our conversations, even though I knew I shoudna.”

“Aye,” Ichabod murmurs, unable to look away from her lovely face. “From our first meeting I couldna get you out of my mind. I saw your face everywhere I looked.”

“Then why didna you talk to me so we could figure out a solution that didna render me a prisoner and you a warden?”

“There was naught to do, Abigail,” Ichabod says. “Your father had already decided you were to wed Daniel and he would join with Clan Reynolds.”

Abbie recoils as if slapped. 

“No. That isnae true.”

“It is, Abigail.”

“My father told me though Clan Reynolds had asked for my hand he wouldna force me to choose them. I would make my own mind,” she hisses, but already she’s probing her memories, the last times she saw her father. He was preoccupied, and seemed worried about something. She thought it clan business she wasn’t privy to and yet…

And yet. 

“I willna tell you how I know, but know I only tell you the truth.” Ichabod watches her eyes dart back and forth, filling with tears as she searches desperately for his lie. 

“I have known Daniel for years,” she says, her voice watery. “I would have refused him without danger.”

“Nay, you wouldn’t have. You said it yourself, you dreaded the day when you would have to tell him no. He has wanted you for years. You think he would accept your rejection?” Ichabod asks. 

“You are too precious, too valuable to have slip away. He is a man who would only see you as an ornament, as a way to better his standing and Clan Reynolds’ standing. They are mighty fishermen but they are land poor; if they got even an acre of Mills field they would find a way to grow it, bleeding into the clan and taking what they wanted. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“And you’re nae attempting the same thing?” Abbie yells. “You have me and now you have access to Mills holdings, aye?”

“I am a Crane,” Ichabod said, sitting at his full height. “I need naught from a Mills that I canna get on my own. What we dinna have we will get without treachery and deceit, or trading on the life of a woman,” he hisses. 

“What in heaven is that amazing smell?” Bram asks as he ambles into the kitchen. “Nothing but porridge and salt pork since we’ve been here.” 

He has eyes for nothing but the food as he crosses the room directly to it. Bram hacks off a piece of meat and shoves it in his mouth before he looks over at Abbie and Ichabod. He swallows. 

“Why'm I the last ta know?”

Abbie turns away, sniffling and trying to hide her face as she climbs over the bench. 

“The truce is over, Ichabod Crane. Rot in hell,” she sobs, and flees the room. 

Bram watches her run, mouth full of bread. 

“Is she wearin’ her shift?” he asks. “Oh my god, I’d pledge my honor ta this bread,” he groans, and finally looks at Ichabod’s stricken expression. “What’d I miss?”


	4. Love Favors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie has always prided herself on being realistic.

The ache in her head is the same Abbie always gets when she’s overthinking something she’s figured out after a few minutes. With a full stomach and heart, sleep never comes, and she paces the length of her room until the sun rises high enough to allow her to attempt to return back to the lake to bathe. 

The solitude in the cool light of day settles in her chest and Abbie wonders when the last time was she had been left alone with her thoughts like this. If she were home she’d be taking care of day to day clan matters, checking up on new wives and arranging the trade trips for the next season. 

Who’s doing all of that in her stead? Are they touching her ledgers? Do they understand her process?

Abbie sits on the shore of the lake and laughs lowly as she and her shift dry in the sun.

“Didna think I’d hear that sound again.”

Abbie twists and squints up the tall length of Ichabod Crane before glancing down at his bare legs. 

“Laughter isnae always happy,” she says.

“Understood. May I join you?”

“You own the valley, do you nae?” she asks, a flippant grin on her face.

Ichabod summons his patience and does not rise to the occasion. 

“I dinna wish to intrude if you want solitude.”

“I dinna really know what to do with solitude, I realize. By now I would have a hundred things to do to keep me busy. So many people tugging me this way and that so I wouldna be alone with my thoughts.” 

Abbie gestures her assent and Ichabod folds gracefully to rest beside her on the grass.

“I, too, am finding it different. My time is my own here,” he admits. “At home my time is the clan’s.” 

Ichabod clears his throat and glances down at her attire. 

“I have nae seen you out of that shift since I’ve arrived.”

“Are you trying to see me without my shift, then?” Abbie asks, and hides her grin at his sputter.

“That isna – I mean, that wasna what I –”

“Your face is as red as a holly berry. I know what you mean,” she says, taking pity on him. He relaxes, a small smile of his own lingering. “I dinna have any clothing.”

“What of what you wore here?”

“I used it to fashion my rope down the wall. It wasna until I completed it that I realized I may no make the last distance to the ground without injury.”

Ichabod frowns at the thought of finding her at the base of that fashioned rope, body broken and lifeless. 

“I wish you wouldna put yourself in danger like that.”

“What would you have done in my stead?” she asks curiously. 

Ichabod opens his mouth and closes it again. 

“I would be able to use the rope because I am tall enough to make it to the ground without significant injury.”

Abbie yelps and coughs around a laugh. 

“Another joke at the expense of my perfectly reasonable height.”

Ichabod tries not to stare at her bosom and fails mightily. 

“How did you sleep?”

“I didna.”

Ichabod turns back toward the lake. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Well it is partly your fault and… and partly my own problems,” Abbie says quietly. “There was much to think about.”

Ichabod nods. 

“What have you concluded?”

“When we spoke and you talked about the life you wanted for yourself, were you just telling me things you thought I wanted to hear?” Abbie allows herself to admire his profile while watching the confusion on his face.

Ichabod pulls a patch of scrubby grass from the sand. 

“Nay,” he says after a moment. “I told you the things I hadna really told anyone else.”

“Why?”

“Because I was thrilled at my daring to speak to the flower of the Mills clan. Because you are intelligent and kind and I didna think you would think less of me. Because I didna think I would fall in love with you.”

“You’re in love with me, Ichabod Crane?”

Ichabod nods. 

“I am drowning in it,” he says plainly, finally daring to look at her. “And what of you?”

Abbie swallows. This isn’t real. There has to be something that would turn Ichabod off; convince him that he’s made a mistake. Something that-- 

“I dinna have my maidenhead,” she blurts out almost triumphantly.

Ichabod’s eyes widen abruptly. 

“I’m… I’m sorry, what?”

_In for a penny, in for a pound, Abbie._

“I know you heard me, Crane. What do you think of me now?”

Ichabod considers. 

“Have you lain with someone else?”

“What if I have,” Abbie counters. This isn’t going exactly as she planned, if there could be considered a plan at all. “Has the shine been taken off?”

A black, oily feeling rises in his chest as his hands fist at his sides. Ichabod wants to tear this unnamed man limb from limb for having the blessing of bedding a woman such as Abigail. 

“Why did he nae marry you?” he asks through clenched teeth.

Abbie winces. 

_Aye, Abbie; why didna this imaginary man marry you?_

“Do you wish to return me to my clan?” She asks instead.

Ichabod shakes his head before she can finish. 

“I do nae,” he vows. “Answer my question.”

“He canna marry me if he disna exist,” she snaps. 

_You’ve given up the last bit of your sense, girl. What are you talking about now? How can you fix this without looking like a complete fool?_

“Then how--”

“Young women are just as curious about their bodies as young men. I have always been aware of how… small I look,” she concedes, keeping as close to truth as possible. “So I went about attempting to see how large a member I should look for and let’s say I became well-acquainted with a root vegetable quite by accident.” 

_Never thought I’d say this, but thank you, Annis Fraser, and your wild ways._

Ichabod blinks and suddenly doesn’t know whether Abigail is serious or not. Her expression never wavers and he’s forced to accept her word. 

“I have no idea how to react to such information,” he says honestly. “You’ve never told anyone before, have you?”

“Well, ‘tis not the sort of thing that oft comes up in conversation, now, is it?” She teases. 

It’s Ichabod’s turn to laugh and Abbie joins him, inordinately pleased. 

“I’ve come to a decision, Ichabod Crane.”

He sobers and gives her his full attention. 

“Is this as serious as the root vegetable?”

“I do believe I will regret telling you that,” Abbie says mildly. “But yes, it is. I dinna know how you came by your information but I know in my soul I canna marry Daniel. It would kill me, day by day, and I promised myself that wouldna be my life. You’re the only man I’ve ever met to anger and excite me in equal measure. To make me feel…” 

She swallows and rubs the back of her neck. 

“What do I make you feel, Abigail?” he asks.

“Half an emotion like happiness,” she admits after a moment. “I just wish you had spoken to me first because you told me your wife would be your equal in all things; I consider the path of my life to be included in that.”

Ichabod, abashed, nods. 

“I acted recklessly and without foresight,” he says. “Please forgive me.”

“One day,” she says. “But on _this_ day, I… accept the logic of your marriage proposal.” 

Ichabod blinks again, a high-pitched whine filling his ears as he stares at Abbie. She looks away under his intense gaze. 

“Truly?” he asks.

“Aye,” she says, obviously mocking him.

In his effusive joy Ichabod bowls Abbie over and bears her to the ground, covering her face and neck in kisses as he croons his adoration of her and her brilliant mind. Her legs fall on either side of his slender hips and she gasps as her body comes alive at his touch. 

“Ichabod,” she groans, her core already throbbing for him. If she doesn’t stop him now, he would have her right here.

And she would let him.

His fingers skirt down the column of her throat as he kisses her languidly, pouring the heat he feels for her into her body. Abbie breaks the kiss with a gasp when she feels him against her, hard through even the wool of his kilt and the cotton of her shift. 

“Ichabod, no, I’m nae done,” she says, pushing at his shoulders, shuddering when he brushes the outer swells of her breasts.

He lifts his face from the sweet silk of her skin, feeling drunk and needful in a way that seems to be the norm in the presence of his compact goddess. 

“I’m sorry, have I hurt you?” he asks, reluctantly moving off and away so she can catch her breath. 

Ichabod sits on his hands to keep from reaching for Abbie as she remains dazed and supine, glorious breasts straining against her shift as she gasps for air. 

Abbie touches her neck where Ichabod had begun to leave a mark with his teeth and tongue against a sensitive patch of skin at the join of her neck and shoulder. 

“I dinna… I dinna remember what I was about to say,” she says, trying desperately to ignore the itch between her legs. She struggles to sit up again and imagines briefly tackling Ichabod to the ground and letting him do what he willed with her very willing body.

“Then do we have to talk at all?” Ichabod asks, eyes roaming her beautiful face. “I will dedicate my life to satisfying your body in every way you allow me.”

“You’re making this more difficult than I anticipated,” Abbie says mournfully. “Dinna look at me like a pup,” she complains, reaching over and covering his eyes with her hands. He stills immediately, all sensory reception narrowed to the skin touched by her hand. 

“That’s better,” she murmurs, and he shudders at her proximity. 

“There are some conditions to my surrender,” Abbie says, watching with amusement at the movement of Ichabod’s throat at her choice of words.

“Name them,” he practically begs. 

“I willna lay with you until we’re married.”

Ichabod nods enthusiastically. 

“I will find a friar to wed us.”

Abbie shakes her head at his excitement, and doesn’t bother to hide her smile since he can’t see it. 

“I need clothes.”

“You will have more than you can wear in a lifetime,” he swears, and she rolls her eyes. 

“I dinna need quite that many,” Abbie says gently. She removes her hand so he can see how serious she is at this point. “This is the last, and you may decide you dinna want me after this.”

Ichabod’s giddiness fades. 

“You dinna scare me, _mo gràdh_.”

Abbie takes one of his hands into both of hers and marvels at the difference in size. 

“I dinna think you understand how much you’ve hurt me, Ichabod.”

“I’m sorry, my Abigail. I promise never to do anything like it again,” he says.

“I canna just turn off how I’m feeling. No matter how parts of me burn for your touch. And I do,” Abbie says, breathing hard as she continues to stare into his eyes. “But all favor you built with me has turned to ash.”

Ichabod swallows, his heart falling into the pit of his stomach. 

“What are you saying?”

“You have to start from the beginning, Ichabod Crane. The person I thought you were and the person you are canna be reconciled in my head and heart so we will start again. Naught but truth between the two of us.” She looks away. “Nae even love.”

Ichabod’s heart thuds so hard it’s all he can hear as he stares at Abigail’s profile. Swallowing his pride, he is ashamed to think he did not consider that his wonderful, wild Abigail would not be impressed with his plan. 

“…I understand,” he whispers. 

“Still want me?” she asks, finally looking back at him.

“More than anything,” he says truthfully.

Abbie pats his hand and rises to her feet. 

“I think I’m going to try sleeping again, since I have naught else to do currently,” she says, and turns away before she tries to figure out a reason to go back and kiss him.

“Abigail?”

She stops, closing her eyes and attempting to compose herself before she turns. 

“Yes, Ichabod?”

He rises to his feet and comes to stand before her, taking her hands in his, covering them completely. 

“I will earn your trust and your love again, I swear it,” he says. “There is nothing I canna do when I put my mind to it.” 

Abbie squeezes his hands but says nothing. 

“May I leave you with a token of my affection?” Ichabod leans down slowly, giving her enough time to move away if so inclined. His nose brushes against hers softly as he tilts her chin up to kiss her properly.

He pours everything he feels for her in his kiss, everything he wants for them. How unbelievably sorry he is for thoughtlessly thinking he could make such a vast and difficult decision about her and not with her. When he pulls away Abigail’s eyes are still closed and her beautiful face still turned up to his. He indulges in another short press of a kiss before he turns and leaves her, with a clear purpose.

~*~

Abbie wakes late in the afternoon, better rested than she can remember. She remains in bed for a few moments, enjoying the stillness of her mind and body before her eyes fly open again. 

She agreed to marry him.

She turns and hides her face in her bedclothes, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Grace Abigail Mills, you’re going to be a wife.

_You’re gonna be a Crane_ , her brain supplies.

She sits up and immediately sees a sheaf of paper on the table next to her candle stick, and she wonders when Ichabod came by. It’s a little disconcerting, considering she’s always been a light sleeper.

Abbie climbs out of bed and hurries to open the letter. 

_Dearest Abigail,_

_I will return in a few days’ time with everything that will not only make Castle Donnáin worthy of your stay, but convince you of my earnest affection and respect. I hope you think of me while away, for my mind will surely be upon you and your lovely smile the entire time._

_Yours,_

_Ichabod_

Abbie clutches the page to her chest and takes a deep shuddering breath, stumbling to the chair when her legs won’t hold her any longer. 

“You beautiful bastard,” she murmurs to the air, and hopes in her heart of hearts she has truly met her match.

With Ichabod gone, that leaves just her and Bram.

Again.

Her life is still a tad uncertain, but at least there are some things that are clear. It’s with that resolve that she takes one of the sheets from her bed and creates a serviceable drape and returns to the kitchens to find what she can whip up. She ends up frying fish and potato cakes and is in the middle of cleaning up when Bram enters, surprised to find himself in the room with her. 

He eyes her warily, then glances at the veritable feast on the table. 

“I’m nae going to hit you again,” she promises, feeling almost guilty for the swelling on the side of his eye. “Perhaps we can start over? I dinna want to hate Katrina’s intended.” 

“Last night, after I gorged meself silly, I came ta the conclusion there is much I can overlook on a full stomach.” 

He eyes the spread hopefully. 

“And yer right, Katrina would have my family baubles if she thought we didna like each other.”

Abbie sputters and laughs. 

“Well, tuck in; I canna eat all of this,” she gestures to the food. “Looking at all of it I wonder who I thought I was cooking for, considering it’s just you and me. I just had to keep my hands busy.”

“Ye’ll hear no complaints from me. Anything’s ambrosia next to corn gruel and salt pork.” 

Bram licks his lips as he throws his leg over the bench and inhales the wonderful aromas. 

“I havena had a decent fish fry since Ichabod and I had business on the northern coast.”

“I havena been to the north coast since I was a girl,” she says, placing a full tankard beside Bram before she took her place at the table. 

He eyes her dig into her food and seems to decide something. 

“I’ve got stories of Ichabod that’ll put hair on yer chest,” he says conspiratorially.

Abbie smiles eagerly. 

“I’ve got stories about Katrina that’ll make you blush like a tiny child. I suggest a trade.”

“Deal.”

“But first, give me back my hair pins.”

Bram shoves a potato cake into his mouth whole and groans at the flavor. 

“If I can get four more’a those I will _make_ ye a set of hair pins,” he promises. 

Abbie glances down at her plate, pleased.

~*~

It takes three days for Ichabod to find all he seeks, and he ends up purchasing a cart in order to haul it. He doesn’t care about the price; every bit of coin to leave his hand was to ensure Abigail’s happiness. 

The time apart was good for him, though it made him almost ill to turn away from her sweetly slumbering form when he snuck into her room to leave the correspondence, spurred to leave as quickly as possible to hasten his return to her side.

Now that she will have him.

Ichabod refuses to nudge Cadeyrn into a gallop; wouldn’t do him any good at any rate because the great beast is sulking at having to pull a cart. No, the time alone will allow Ichabod to get a hold of his voracious longing for Abigail and all her physical blessings. He will prove he is worthy of all she has to offer, which he realizes is even more than he’d originally considered. 

Despite his best efforts, Ichabod doesn’t arrive at Castle Donnáin until well past nightfall of his fourth day away. His gaze lifts to her tower and the slight glow he can discern from below. 

_Is she still awake?_ His heart beats faster at the thought, but he prods Cadeyrn into the stable to unhitch the cart. 

He manages to unhitch the cart and rub down Cadeyrn before Bram wanders into the stable, half asleep and chewing something. Immediately Ichabod’s stomach growls. 

“What are you eating?” he demands as Bram eyes his overladen cart.

“Did ye leave anythin’ for anyone else ta buy?” Bram asks, chewing slowly.

“I just picked up a few things,” Ichabod says defensively. “Abigail needed clothing, and then I realized the table in her room is a poor substitute for a desk, and a footrest wouldn’t be amiss when she decides to do needlepoint or sit by the fire.”

Bram nods slowly. 

“Does she do needlepoint?”

Ichabod sighs. 

“Is there any food left, or have you eaten it all?”

Bram shoves the rest of what’s in his hand in his mouth and chews thoroughly. 

“‘Tis all gone,” he says after he swallows.

“I ought to run you through right here,” Ichabod grumbles.

“Who would go and fetch if ye did?” Bram begins poking through the items on the cart and starts when a pile of fabric moves. “What in…” 

He moves some material around and finds himself with a face full of tongue. 

“Ach, what is that?!”

Ichabod shoves his friend over and pulls a scrawny little pup from the confines of the cart and sets it on the stable floor. Immediately it begins to sniff at Bram’s feet with wobbly, knobby legs. 

“It’s a deerhound pup.”

“Runt of the litter is more like it,” Bram says, reaching down to scratch beneath the dog’s small chin and it tumbles to its back in efforts to nip at the fingers coming close.

“Aye, he was gonna get put down and I just couldna leave it.” Ichabod smiles down at him and snaps his fingers. “Gotta get this stuff in the house and get him some food.”

“Will you wake Abigail?” Bram asks as he begins to pull things from the cart.

“No. I dinna wish to disturb her slumber.”

“Coward.”

~*~

Abbie has been staring at the dress ever since she woke to find it left in her room. It’s a gorgeous dove grey and the stitching looks delicate. It’s not overly ornate and the sleeves will allow her to move about as she needs, but fingering the soft cloth she finds herself in a maelstrom of emotion. 

This dress means that Ichabod has returned, and as much as Abbie has convinced herself she’s going about everything logically, her heartbeat increases at the thought of seeing him again. She lifts the dress and holds it to her body; it appears it will fit perfectly, and she doesn’t know how she feels about it.

If it had been some tailor’s cast off or hastily thrown together Abbie could just look at it as a serviceable requirement; she needs clothes. But clothing has no requirement to be beautiful, or to look as if she herself picked it out. 

Abbie throws off her shift for the new one left with the dress, and sighs happily at the feel of a proper dress as she slides it over her body. It does fit, even if it’s a little tight across the bust. She adjusts herself and glances down at her chest with a laugh. She can hear Katrina telling her to flaunt what she has, so she leaves the neckline alone and ties the ornamental cinch.

Abbie braids her hair carefully and feels more like herself with her hair pinned. She wishes for a mirror but there isn’t one in her room and she can’t remain shut away for the entire day; there aren’t enough leftovers to last Bram until she’s drummed up enough courage to see her intended.

She places her hand over her heart and tries to force it to calm before she wrenches her door open and walks down stairs like she’s done for the past few days and heads straight for the kitchen. 

…Which is surprisingly empty.

Abbie steps further in, a little irritated at the disruption of her expectation and jumps at movement beneath the table. She crouches down and is met with brown eyes too big for such a small face. 

“Oh, aren’t you adorable,” she coos. “Come on out, please?” 

The puppy noses at the empty plate next to him but trots out warily to sniff her hand. 

“Oh aren’t you just the most adorable creature?” she asks, eagerly gathering it in her arms. Abbie checks. “Oh, you’re a boy. Aren’t you the cutest thing on four legs?” 

“I see you’ve met the pup.”

Abbie freezes, heart thundering in her chest as she clutches the animal tight enough for it to yelp. 

“Oh, forgive me,” she murmurs, and receives a conciliatory lick to her chin. “What’s his name?” she asks as she turns.

Somehow Abbie thought she’d be unaffected by seeing Ichabod, but she’d forgotten how tall he stood and the broadness of his shoulders, and the heat of his gaze as he strides toward her.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs as he lets his gaze slide down her body, taking great care to skim her curves. 

Abbie flushes, thankful her skin doesn’t reveal it easily, suddenly aware of how she appears to be putting herself on display. 

“Odd name for a dog,” she says wryly.

Ichabod blinks, wondering how one can be more lovely than in his already-perfect memory. 

“I’m sorry?” he asks, then immediately gets the jest. 

“Your beauty robbed me of sense,” he says, and enjoys the way she looks away, and _absolutely_ enjoys the way her bosom heaves as her breath quickens. He admires the cool grey against the warm brown of her skin and is suddenly overcome with the desire to lick and nip at her generous mounds as they threaten to spill over her neckline.

“Where’s Bram?” Abbie asks as she busies herself with putting the puppy down and ensuring her beautiful new dress doesn’t have a speck of dirt upon it. When she turns back to Ichabod he’s still staring at her. 

“I’ve sent him on an errand. He’ll be back in a few days.”

Abbie takes a deep breath; she’s going to be alone with Ichabod Crane for a few days. That’s fine. A Mills can take anything thrown her way without fear. He takes a step forward and she falls back, cursing her suddenly weak knees as he gazes down at her. 

“I see,” she says shakily.

“Do you find the dress satisfactory?” Ichabod asks, clasping his hands behind his back. 

Abbie decides to give credit when it is due. “You have an excellent eye,” she admits. “I am pleased with the cut and color.”

“And the fit?”

She looks at him slyly. 

“It fits a little _too_ well, wouldn’t you say?” It’s her turn to grin when Ichabod suddenly flusters. 

“How did you know my measurements? I destroyed the one dress I had.”

Ichabod’s hands twitch at his sides. 

“I am adept at gathering near precise measurements by touch.”

Abbie flashes to the day by the lake, Ichabod warm like a stone between her legs and her breasts in his hands. The needful twinge in her core is almost painful and she turns away again to escape the swift heat between them.

“A man of many talents,” she manages to get out. “Have you eaten?”

“I was able to catch the tail end of the feast you prepared for Bram. The man sings your praises, Abigail.” He watches her duck her head with a small smile. “But that was earlier today.”

“When you left my surprise in my room?” she asks. 

“Before, when I arrived late in the night.”

Abbie nods and cocks her head as she watches the puppy tumble into the middle of the room, chasing who knows what. 

“You still havena told me the pup’s name.”

“I thought you would want to name him, since he’s yours,” Ichabod says.

Abbie’s eyes widen as she looks at the animal with new eyes. 

“He’s so small,” she croons as she rushes back to gather him in her arms. “What a tiny little thing.”

“I saw him and thought of you,” he says, and smirks at her feigned irritation.

“Glimpsing the future filled with jokes about our shared stature, my little Famhair,” Abbie says at Ichabod before turning her nose up and away.

“Giant?” Ichabod laughs, and feels himself quite content as he watches Abigail kiss the top of the pup’s head.

“Aye, so he’ll know it’s all about spirit, not long bones,” she says, cutting her eyes at him. “Oh, little Famhair. Let’s get you and a certain someone some food.”

“I have more items for you,” Ichabod blurts, and Abbie’s expression is mildly amused. “More dresses. And a few things for your room.”

“You’re nae going to make me move into your room?” She asks.

“I hadna considered that,” he admits. “But you wished nae to lie together until we’re man and wife and so shall it be.”

“Is there a friar amongst the items you’ve brought back?”

Ichabod searches her face for fear and finds none. 

“No,” he says.

“Why?”

He came across four without looking and each time he would see Abigail's hurt expression and his stomach would sour. “I couldna find one on such short notice,” he says, laughing as Abigail does. 

“I did try, though,” he says. 

“I’m sure you did,” she says quietly, and squares her shoulders. “You can put the rest of my things in my room. I’ll come get you when I’ve completed lunch.”

A cacophony of emotion flits across Ichabod’s face before he marshals his response and drops down into a bow. 

“My lady,” he murmurs, and turns smartly on his heel. 

“Ichabod?”

“Aye?” he turns to find her smiling at him softly. 

“I thank you for Famhair,” she says. “More than you know.” 

“I am glad you two seem to enjoy each other.”

“And… I think you should call me Abbie.” 

She doesn’t look at him as she plays with the hem of one of her sleeves. 

“Those closest to me do,” she clarifies. 

Ichabod nods, suddenly robbed of speech, and leaves the room. 


	5. Lay in a Bed of Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie meets the O'Learys. Ichabod and Abbie share an unexpected moment.

Abbie wakes to the sound of yelping and pouring water.

She sits up and screams, Famhair scampering closer as they both scare a brown-haired girl into almost dropping the pitcher in her hands. 

“Oh, my lady,” she says, trailing into silence as she stares at Abbie. She seems to come to herself after a blink and drops into a curtsey, the water sloshing in her jug. 

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb yer sleep,” she babbles, bobbing again.

Abbie groans, her heart thudding in her chest as the adrenalin recedes. Famhair stares up at her, wagging his tail worriedly. 

“I’m fine,” she says after a moment, as much to the pup as to the girl. “We just werena expecting you.”

“My family and I arrived after ye had retired for the evenin’. I am Siobhan O’Leary.” She bobs a curtsey again and a bit of water slips over the lid of the carafe.

Abbie suppress her chuckle as she blinks to fully wake, running her fingers down Famhair’s neck and cuddling him close. 

“Pleased to meet you, Siobhan. I’m Abigail and this adorable creature is Famhair.”

Siobhan bounces respectfully yet again and casts a fond smile at Famhair as he comes to the edge of the bed to stare at her and wag his tail. 

“Pleased to meet ye both. May I pet ‘im?”

“He may die if you don’t.” Abbie chuckles as the darn animal practically turns himself inside out to lick at the hand that pets him. 

Siobhan rubs his stomach as she returns her attention to Abbie. 

“Would ye like me to assist ye with dressin’ this morning, my lady?” 

Abbie shakes her head and slips from the bed. 

“That willna be necessary, I usually dress myself. Do you have experience braiding?” she asks as she pulls on her robe and ties it. It’s a beautiful green, and one of the many articles of clothing Ichabod had returned with a few days previous.

Siobhan glances at Abbie’s hair and hesitates. 

“I do know how to braid, though I am unsure if I can braid… yer… type of hair?” she winces. “I do not want to cause damage.”

Abbie nods. 

“I appreciate your honesty. I will train you on what I do to take care of my hair so you will be able to assist me.”

Siobhan’s smile returns to its fullness as she nods eagerly. 

“It is very beautiful,” she says. 

“Thank you.”

“Would ye like me to bring ye breakfast or do ye prefer to dine in the dinin’ room?”

Abbie blinks. The dining room? She hadn’t even stepped foot in that room except to admire the dust and close the door shut behind her. 

“Where has Ichabod decided to take his meal?”

Siobhan smiles and bounces on her feet. 

“Lord Ichabod says we’re to let ye make the decision, as lady of the house.”

Abbie allows herself a rush of fondness at his gesture. It’s been interesting, trying not to spend all her time around him and yet not appear like she’s avoiding his presence. They came together twice to eat, neither being entirely fond of breakfast, and spent a few hours together just having a conversation on anything they could think of.

The thrill is back, she admits. The one that made her breathless when she would talk with him.

And even though Abbie enjoys his company and looks forward to watching him talk about things and events that excite him, her stubborn pride keeps her from falling into bed with him. What would it hurt? She’s already promised to marry him. 

“We’ll use the dining room,” she says quietly. “Can you take Famhair down and get him something to eat? I’ll be down shortly.”

Siobhan bobs again. 

“Yes, my lady,” she says, then leaves Abbie alone to dress.

~*~

Ichabod walks the castle, marveling at how quickly it’s begun to look like a home rather than an oft-forgotten holding of Clan Crane. The tapestries were brought up from the cellar and aired; the O’Leary men, Angus and Ian, making short work of restoring rooms to prior glory.

The matron of the O’Leary family, Maighread, is in the kitchens, quickly making the realm her own as she rearranges items to her fancy. The footsteps and murmured conversation settle his soul as Ichabod walks leisurely about the castle, hands clasped behind his back. 

His thoughts wander to Abigail – no, Abbie, he thinks with a rush of reverence – and if she would join them in time to have breakfast together. For the past few blissful days they both naturally rose just before coming together for midday meal, but now that there is work to oversee Ichabod has returned his normal early hours. 

Aimlessly walking has brought him to the corridor just before the kitchens, and he overhears Siobhan and Maighread, and the quiet rumble of Ian talking amongst each other. He tarries when he hears the topic of discussion. 

“She’s so beautiful, Ma,” Siobhan says dreamily. “Did ye know she was Afric?”

“Should ‘ave figured as much. Ye’ve met a few of the Clan Mills when we first landed, but ye were wee yet. They were nice enough to buy all our wool and lamb without cheatin’ us just because we were from Éire,” Ian chimes in. “Is she as tall as those we met?”

“She’s wee, like a doll,” Siobhan says. “And just as beautiful. She is gonna teach me how to take care of her hair so I can assist her. She’s so nice already, Ma.”

“Let’s hope she likes the rest of us as much as ye seem to already love her,” Maighread teases gently, and Ichabod’s heart swells with pride.

Of course everyone is in the thrall of his Abigail, and she is his alone, he thinks.

"Lord Ichabod, is there anythin’ you require?”

Ichabod whirls to find Angus waiting expectantly. 

“Oh, no. I was merely caught in thought,” he says hastily. 

“I see, sir. I came to tell you we will have the rest of the castle aired and all tapestries hung by nightfall.”

“Ichabod, are you overworking these fine people?” 

Both men turn to find Abbie coming down the hall.

“Mi’lady,” Angus inclines his head respectfully as she passes to stand before him.

“Hello, I’m Lady Abigail,” she says. “Welcome to Castle Donnáin.”

“Thank you. I’m Angus O’Leary, and I’ve been told you’ve already met my daughter, Siobhan. I hope she’s satisfactory in her service to you, ma’am.”

Abbie nods. 

“I think we’ll get along just fine; she seems very capable and quite smart.” She turns to Ichabod, who has yet to stop staring to speak. 

“Good morning,” she says quietly.

“Excuse me,” Angus says quickly, caught in the crossfire between them. He ducks away and Ichabod steps closer as soon as they’re alone.

“Good morning, Abbie,” Ichabod rumbles, enjoying the way her eyes widen at the sound of her name. “I trust you slept well?”

Abbie smiles at him. 

“I did. I’m sorry I didna join you earlier.”

“It is your prerogative; I only wish your happiness,” he says. 

“Well… I am pleased, and would like to join you for breakfast in the dining room,” she says. “I’ll prepare something light.”

“No need, Abbie. Maighread has already completed the meal and was just waiting on your instruction as to where to have it served,” he says. 

Surprise and disappointment flit across Abbie’s face.. 

“Is that nae what would please you?”

Abbie considers.

“I just grew used to it being just us,” she admits. 

“I want you to concentrate on other things,” Ichabod says.

“Such as?”

Ichabod finds himself momentarily at a loss. 

“I’m sure an enterprising mind such as yours will figure something out,” he teases. “I must admit, while every color you wear is amazing upon your form, you are a vision in gold.”

Abbie tilts her head as he comes closer, unable to keep her breathing controlled. 

“You dinna think it too fancy?”

“Nae at all; you are a goddess and should be clad as such,” he rumbles, moving further into her personal space, his eyes arrested by her mouth as his fingers trace the edge of the neckline that lay across her collarbone. 

“Abbie?” he asks, leaning down to rub his nose against hers.

“Yes?” It comes out barely a whisper, and her eyes flutter shut when she feels Ichabod’s breath against her mouth. 

“May I kiss you?”

Abbie swallows. 

“Yes.”

Ichabod slants his mouth against hers and pulls her closer by the waist, reveling in the softness of her full lips. 

“Abbie?” he mumbles.

“Yes, Ichabod?”

“May I have another?”

“Greedy,” she breathes against him, nuzzling her face against his as her hands creep up his forearms. 

Ichabod chuckles low and Abbie feels an answering throb in her core. 

“I cannot resist sweets,” he says, and crowds her against the wall as he kisses her with all the ardor he feels.

Abbie breaks the kiss to breathe and nearly swoons when Ichabod trails down her neck, grazing his teeth and tongue against her pulse point. The sound that escapes her throat goes straight to his cock and he lifts her from the ground without thinking, desperate to feel more of her. His hands slip down to her ass to support her better and she rakes her fingers down the nape of his neck to hold on to his collar, hissing at the hard scrape of teeth against the swell of her breast. 

He squeezes Abbie’s rear once more before letting her rest against his front, shuddering at the sensation of his cock at half-mast pressing against her. 

“Oh, for the love of everythin’, Ichabod. Let the poor lass breathe,” Bram says as he passes behind them.

Abbie stares up at Ichabod, panting and eyes dilated, her fingers still clutching his shirt in her small hands. 

“Apologies,” he says, unable to feel a dark feeling of smugness at Abbie’s disorientation.

Abbie’s grip tightens just a moment before she shoves him away and adjusts her dress, hoping the stiffness of the material hides how hard her nipples are. 

“Turnabout,” she murmurs as she steps around him into the kitchen.

Ichabod exhales loudly as he wrestles control over his body. 

_Promises_ , he thinks. He enters the kitchen to see Maighread offer her spread for inspection, chatting away with Abbie about how she would like her kitchen run. He comes to stand beside Bram and gives him a black look.

“Dinna look at me like that,” he mutters out the side of his mouth. “Ye were a mere moment away from mountin’ her in the hall.”

“Your words are not helping,” Ichabod mutters.

“Imagine my pain when I have ta leave _my_ intended behind,” Bram retorts. 

They watch as Ian steps forward, giving Abbie a rough yet deep bow. 

“Looks like ye have some competition,” he says as Abbie smiles and pats the young man’s arm. 

The look of raw adoration on the boy’s face makes Ichabod embarrassed by proxy.

“Hardly,” he murmurs, finding it difficult not to stare at Abbie as she moves around the room.

“Where’s Famhair?” Abbie asks. 

Maighread wipes her hands on her apron and glances around. 

“The adorable critter is probably with me own critter. Aidan? Where are ye, boy?”

“He’s still under the table, Maigh,” Angus says as he enters from the back door. 

Abbie gathers her skirts and crouches to look beneath the table to find big green eyes staring at her from beneath a head of curly black hair. Famhair slumbers sprawled on the boy, having tuckered himself out by eating. 

“Oh, are you Aidan?” she asks softly. 

The curly head nods. 

“Do you like Famhair?” 

He nods again. 

“Can you come out so I can meet you properly?”

“Aidan, come right out,” Maighread calls. “Lady Abigail shouldn’t have to ask ye twice.”

The young boy toddles out, his little tummy sticking out between his shirt and pants, barefoot and something sticky on one cheek. Famhair whines and climbs out after him, jumping and trying to lick at Abbie enthusiastically. 

“Hi, Aidan,” she says, laughing as she tries to calm Famhair.

Aidan stares at her and cowers behind his mother’s skirts. 

“ ‘lo,” he whispers. 

“I’m Lady Abigail. I’m very pleased to meet you,” she says. 

“ ‘lo, Allie A’gail,” Aidan whispers again before pressing his face between the folds of his mother’s skirts. 

“He’s incredibly shy,” Maighread says as she pats his curly head. “We’ll teach him to say yer name correctly. Apologies, milady.”

Abbie scoffs and shakes her head. 

“He’s barely a babe; he’ll learn eventually. How old is he?” 

“He’ll be four in two months. Angus and I thought we’d done with babes when this ‘un came along.” The matron flushes, but there’s pride in her voice.

Abbie restrains her glee at the chubby child and nods. 

“Welcome, all of you. I hope that you will enjoy it here. I will speak with everyone together and separately about what work I would like to begin. Have you had time to settle?”

Angus nods once. 

“Lord Ichabod didn’t allow us to begin until we’d moved into the servants’ quarters below.”

Abbie glances back at Ichabod but says nothing. 

“Glad to hear it. Maighread, we’ll take breakfast in the dining room.”

“Understood, milady. I promise Aidan will not be underfoot.”

Abbie can’t help her smile as she looks down at the toddler. She’s reminded of the swarms of children climbing on anything and anyone slow enough to let them as she conducted her business amongst her clan. 

“He’s a child, he’s designed to be underfoot,” she says fondly.

“May I accompany ye ta the dinin’ room, Lady Abigail?” Bram asks, delivering an overwrought bow in Abbie’s direction.

“Nae sure we’d find it if _you’re_ leading,” Abbie breezes, and puts her hand in Bram’s. They both laugh but Abbie’s gaze is on Ichabod, who is definitely staring at her. It isn’t until she leaves the room that Ichabod realizes he’s not following.

“I’m pleased so far,” he tells the O’Learys, and rushes after his bride and friend.

~*~

Sometime after lunch Abbie wanders outside the castle with Famhair, and takes in the warm breeze. Spring is finally yielding to summer as the heavy rainclouds break up to let more sun come through. Famhair completely agrees with more sunshine; loping in and out of the tall grass and down the path away from the castle. 

She’s glad she’s changed into a simpler frock of deep blue; what with Famhair insisting she play along with him, nipping at her fingertips until she crouches down to accept his eager kisses so he may dart away again. 

As she moves away from the castle to see more of the valley Abbie recalls the kiss from this morning, and how much she enjoyed it. She hadn’t anticipated torturing herself as much as Ichabod. Part of her wonders what they would be doing if he had been able to return with a priest. 

Though she’s hasn’t partaken in all the carnal arts herself, she’s seen couples before, hidden away and desperate for each other’s touch. Abbie hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but each time she stumbled across such events she couldn’t remove herself or risk alerting the couple of her location. 

So she would stay and watch, wondering how it felt different from someone’s mouth down there. 

The women she saw definitely seemed to enjoy a cock inside of them, and no man seemed disappointed. But even when she imagines Ichabod finally sliding inside of her she doesn’t know how he’s going to fit. 

Famhair trots back to her and trips over his paws onto her skirt. 

“It’s like a monster betwixt his legs,” she tells the pup. “What is one to do with that?” 

Abbie turns at the sound of hoofbeats, shielding her eyes so she can make out Bram and Ichabod on horseback. 

“There you are,” Ichabod says as they slow to a stop in front of her. Famhair darts between her legs and looks up at Ruby and Cadeyrn, both of whom seem unimpressed with the runty pup. 

“Abraham has business to attend to; I thought to ride with him to the valley’s edge to give Cadeyrn a chance to run. Would you like to accompany us?”

Abbie can’t help but smile and nod. 

“It’s considerate of you to ask.”

“‘Twas my idea,” Bram says when Ichabod merely ducks his head and blushes. 

“Well, I thank you. But what of Famhair?” Abbie asks. 

Bram squints in the afternoon sunshine back toward the castle. 

“Ian,” he bellows, his voice as loud as a thunderclap. Amazingly, after a moment the young man emerges from the stable and runs toward them. 

“Aye?”

“Take the beast back to the castle for Lady Abigail,” Ichabod says.

“Thank you, Ian,” Abbie says as the teen scoops the pup into his arms, trying but failing to avoid the enthusiastic licks.

“My pleasure,” Ian says with a nod. 

Abbie turns to find Ichabod offering his arm. 

“Just like last time,” he says, his smile fond as she rolls her eyes and yelps as he plucks her from the ground like she’s a mere flower. Ichabod helps her settle and yet again she fits like a key into a lock before him.

Abbie is silent during the ride, taking in the beautiful land along the way. She can’t help but file away ideas for planting season and how to begin using the resources of the valley for Castle Donnáin’s best interest. Plenty of timber to trade and work producing furniture to sell. It’s reflex to think upon a few furniture makers in the Mills clan who could turn pine into something divine. 

The tug of melancholy is short-lived as she rouses from her thoughts in time to notice they’ve stopped. 

“I’ll return as soon as I can,” Bram tells Ichabod, and moves close to accept Abbie’s hand. He delivers a loud kiss to her knuckles that has her snatching her hand back and swatting him away. 

“I know ye’ll miss me, Abigail,” he croons. “Ichabod will have ta do.”

“I dinna know if I can stand it,” Abbie says, incognizant of how she’s snuggling back against Ichabod’s chest.

Ichabod tightens his grip on Abbie’s waist and tugs Cadeyrn back. 

“Godspeed, Bram,” he chuckles, and they continue back in a leisurely walk. “So, of what you’ve seen of Duhnorum Valley, what do you think?”

Abbie hums, the call of a falcon in the distance. 

“It’s beautiful,” she says. 

“My grandfather was gifted this valley when he became chief of Clan Crane. We used to come here as a family during summer.”

“What happened?” 

“In my ninth year my brother, Callum, fell ill. His fever never broke and he died here, at sixteen. We just… It became difficult to return.” 

Abbie’s hand tightens over Ichabod’s, where it lies at her waist. 

“I’m sorry this place holds such bad memories for you.”

“It disna, really,” Ichabod admits. “My father was happier here than anywhere else. Here, we were just a family enjoying ourselves. Outside of this valley, we put clan first.” 

He glances down at Abbie and hums. 

“But you understand that just as well as I.”

Abbie breathes deeply and nods. 

“I have nae had so many days in succession where I have nae been pulled in multiple directions. Only one household to oversee? No one with demands both petty and large? No business dealings to attend to and no books to balance.”

Ichabod is impressed. 

“You do all that?” he asks.

“I hear surprise,” Abbie says warily.

“I shoudna be. You’ve a keen mind; that is obvious after a single conversation.” He presses a kiss to her temple and Abbie’s glad he can’t see her amusement at his faint praise.

“And I am heir,” she says. “Who else would run Clan Mills if nae me? Should I nae be trained?”

“Your father named you heir?” he blurts.

Abbie’s shoulders slump. 

“He is my father and I am his eldest. You may require only sons in Scotland, but where my mother and father are from, their people merely require the eldest child.”

Ichabod considers the McLachlan clan who once lived and thrived two leagues to the east of Clan Crane; perhaps they would not have been scattered to ruin in his seventeenth year if their chief’s brilliant daughter had been able to maintain control, rather than it reverting to her drunkard of a cousin. 

He feels the tension in Abbie’s body and feels badly. 

“I think more would benefit from that manner of thinking,” Ichabod says, and he is gratified to feel her relax against him after a moment. 

“Good,” Abbie says, and falls silent.

They continue without speaking, both absorbed in their own thoughts until Ichabod clears his throat. 

“I have something I would like to show you, if you’re nae in a hurry to return to the castle.”

Abbie considers. 

“Maighread has dinner well in hand. What would you like to show me?”

“It’s a where, nae a what.” Ichabod urges Cadeyrn into a trot and turns down a path Abbie hadn’t noticed on the way before. There are a few winding turns and she gives up trying to keep herself oriented to the castle and just enjoys the warmth of Ichabod at her back.

It isn’t long before they emerge into a clearing filled with white, wild roses. 

“Oh, my,” Abbie says, awed at the magnificent beauty.

Ichabod can’t help but grin as he slides off Cadeyrn and helps Abbie down. He leads her through the heavy blossoms to the other side of the clearing and between a thin line of trees to reveal an outcropping of rock that juts out into the air. From their vantage point, Abbie can see the castle nestled further down the valley, and realizes the lake is actually just an offset pool of a river that winds through the land. 

“My father used to take us up here once or twice every summer while here. He always said it was important to get a different perspective or you risked taking things for granted. No matter how much I complain I am grateful I can be of service to my family and my people.” 

Abbie looks up at Ichabod, his profile strong and earnest as he gazes over the valley. Something like pride bubbles within her chest and she puts her hand in his. 

“I can definitely understand,” she says, and they both enjoy the view silently. 

Eventually Abbie returns to the flowers to gather some for the castle. Ichabod leans against a tree and watches her dart amongst the blooms. Inspired, he plucks one and captures her laughing as she passes him.

 

“My Abbie,” he says fondly as she looks up at him.

 

She looks away. 

“My Ichabod,” she returns after a moment. Abbie holds her breath as he tucks the rose into a coil of her braid and lets his thumb linger at her temple. On an impulse she rises to her toes and pulls Ichabod down to give him a brief kiss. 

“Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“I live at your pleasure,” he says seriously.

 

Abbie lets him go, turning away from the heat as she fans herself and tries not to crush the flowers in her hands. She can’t contain her joy and collapses with a happy sigh to the soft ground, staring up at the sky with contentment. She chuckles when Ichabod’s big head blots out the sun, his expression full of worry. 

“Haven’t you ever lain in a field of flowers and just relaxed?”

“It’s been some years,” he says, and folds his long limbs so he may lay beside her. Ichabod’s hand falls against hers and he intertwines their fingers together. Grey clouds float by, on their way to rain elsewhere and Ichabod realizes he would attempt to move heaven and earth for the woman beside him, just so she may sigh as sweetly as she does now. 

“Tell me a secret, Abbie,” he says.

“A secret? I’m scandalized, Ichabod.” Abbie cracks open an eye to look at him and laughs at his expression. “What kind of secret?”

“A dirty secret,” he says as his eyes fall to the swell of her bosom.

Abbie closes her eyes and settles back to think. 

“Scandalous,” she murmurs again. “If I tell you a secret you have to tell me one. It’s only fair.”

“I’m an open book,” Ichabod declares. “Ask away. But only after you’ve given me one.”

“You are so sure I have secrets,” Abbie laughs.

“Then I will take kisses.”

Abbie hums as she pretends to consider. 

“Kisses or secrets. Both of mine are valuable, I’ll have you know.”

“Aye, I know,” he says seriously. 

Abbie searches his eyes and cocks her head. 

“Alright. You can give me a secret and I will determine if it’s worth a secret or a kiss.”

“Deal.” Ichabod closes his eyes to consider. “I saw you twice before I actually spoke to you the first time.” 

He opens his eyes to see Abbie’s reaction.

“Really?” she blinks in surprise. “What did you think?”

“I think that’s another secret,” Ichabod says, and is surprised when Abbie leans over and gives him a quick peck. 

“I thought you were beautiful,” he says as soon as they part. 

Abbie rolls her eyes. 

“So why didna you speak to me then?” 

“I didna because I knew you were a Mills and I convinced myself I wasna interested until I saw you knock sense into two grown men twice your size. They had to nearly bend at the waist in order for you to put your little finger in their faces. And they were Chisholms! I’ve seen them spit at their Ma!” 

Abbie bursts out laughing at the memory. 

“I didna know you were there. They attempted to shortchange me and I threatened to take their manhood. They finally saw reason,” she says.

“I’m sure they did.”

“That was years ago,” she murmurs. “What was the second time?” 

“It was during summer, when everyone congregated on Clan MacDonald to trade cattle. You had snuck off to the river and I was on the other bank, packing up my fishing. You let your hair down and dipped your hand into the water, wetting your face and neck. I almost fell into the water,” he admits. 

“… I dinna remember seeing anyone at the river,” Abbie says as she examines her memories of that summer. 

“I hid,” he said simply. “You surprised me and I wanted to watch you without getting caught.” He chuckles as Abbie swats his shoulder.

“Tell me something interesting, Ichabod,” she wheedles.

 

“Pray tell, what do you find interesting?” 

Abbie considers. 

“How many women have you lain with?”

Ichabod chokes on air.

“That many, eh?” 

Ichabod feels himself turn red in the face as he tries to think of a way to answer that wouldn’t find him in trouble. 

“I gave you a secret but you havena given me a kiss or a secret of your own,” he says triumphantly. 

Abbie’s mouth drops open at Ichabod’s smug side-step. 

“What do you want?” she asks. “A kiss or a secret?”

“It is your turn; I want a scandalous secret from you.”

“Fine,” Abbie says, aiming to shock. 

“I have done things… sexual things,” she says. 

“A fondle in the forest is hardly anything to get up in arms about,” Ichabod says, hoping his benevolence will gain him lenience. 

“I dinna consider that noteworthy either,” she says blandly, and Ichabod tears his gaze from the clouds. 

“Continue,” he says.

“Nay. The deal is a kiss or a secret. I’ve given you a secret, what will you give –” 

Ichabod rolls and pins Abbie beneath him before he gives her a toe-curling kiss, nothing like the chaste peck she rewarded him with earlier. When they part they’re both panting. 

“Will that suffice?” he asks, pinning her to the ground by the soul with his gaze.

“Aye,” she says hoarsely. 

“So carry on,” Ichabod rumbles. 

Abbie swallows under the intensity of his focus and inhales shakily. 

“I’ve done a bit more than a fondle. I know how it feels to have a mouth against me and I have done it in turn,” she says.

Ichabod’s eyes are lust-blown even as he rages against this spectral lover. 

“Does this man exist this time?” he asks.

Abbie’s smile is slow and wide. 

“I have told you a sec--” Honestly she was expecting a kiss, but not one to her neck. Ichabod sucks at the sensitive skin so hard she cries out, jerking her legs up on either side of his hips so he falls between her legs. 

“Ichabod,” she groans and writhes against him.

“That was your kiss, Abbie,” he whispers in her ear. “Now tell me, does this man truly exist this time?”

Abbie struggles to control her breathing. 

“You assume it was a man,” she pants.

Ichabod drops his head to her shoulder, dizzy as all his blood flows south at the image of a body, feminine in its curves, before Abbie’s supine form, supping her precious nectar. He’s both inflamed by lust and jealousy, and his hips jerk up against Abbie’s core, causing them both to cry out. 

“Who?” he grits out, a hand yanking up Abbie’s skirt.

She shudders at his touch; Ichabod’s fingers feel like bands of fire against her thigh as he clutches her possessively. Abbie has barely gathered her thoughts back when he thrusts again and she almost cries with want. She clutches at his neck, desperate for skin beneath his shirt as he groans, the sound reverberating through her body and making her tighten all over. 

“I spent a month at the Tanner homestead last year,” Abbie manages to get out. She moans as Ichabod captures her mouth for another almost bruising kiss. When he lets her go she has enough wherewithal to glare at him. 

“Do you want to hear the story or nae?” she asks.

“Aye,” Ichabod says, nosing along the deep scoop of her neckline.

Abbie closes her eyes and tries not to think of how close his mouth is to her nipples. 

“I had seen it done before and I was curious as to how it felt. Katrina was curious too, so naturally –”

Ichabod stops to stare down at Abbie.

“Katrina, Bram’s Katrina?” he asks. “No.”

Abbie laughs at his expression and nods.

“Tell me more.”

“What do you want to know? That when we found out how good it felt it was pretty much all we wanted to do?” she asks, sweetly. 

Ichabod rises to his knees and slides Abbie’s skirts up so they pool around her waist, revealing her linen underwear. His fingers loosen the drawstring and he delves his finger just below the line, against the satin of her skin. With a strangled whine Abbie throws her head back and groans. 

“You’re soaked through,” Ichabod says hoarsely, rubbing her hips through the material. He inhales deeply and loses all reason. 

“Forgive me,” he groans, and presses his face against her, desperate for her scent. 

Abbie sobs, cursing underwear and its use. She wants Ichabod’s mouth on her so desperately as he rubs his mouth and beard on the sodden linen. His large hands come up and begin to peel the offending article of clothing down her heavenly thighs.

“Just a taste,” he murmurs, mindless in his desire. “Just a taste, treasure, and that’s all, I swear,” he babbles. 

“Do you promise,” Abbie asks, lifting her hips and letting him pull her underwear down her legs.

She’s revealed to him and she feels shy; does he like what he sees? What if he’s disappointed? What if he- 

“Oh, my god,” she wails as he spreads her flower and sucks her swollen button.

Abbie tries to sit up but he throws her legs over his shoulders, just as he did in her dream, and she’s holding onto the grass on either side of her head like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away. It feels so good, even better than Katrina’s tongue and definitely better than her own fingers. She can feel her juices dripping down her ass and Ichabod groans and feasts harder, thrusting his tongue inside of her. 

He’s a man possessed, greedy for having been denied such vital essence all his life. Ichabod’s eyes are closed as he clutches Abbie to him, desperate to have all she can give. Her thighs tremble against the sides of his face and Abbie twists out of his grasp to lie limply on the grass, breathing heavily. 

“Ichabod,” she groans, barely able to breathe as she practically vibrates.

 

He comes to himself immediately, apologizing profusely for his behavior as he crawls toward her, the turgid mass between his thighs making movement ungainly and painful. His balls feel twice the size as normal and he has to press a palm to his groin in order not to flash Abbie with his insistent manhood.

“Abbie, please accept my apology. I have never tasted someone so sweet before and I took more than a taste,” he says as he reaches out to gently touch her back.

“You have no idea how much I long to lie back and let you have me,” Abbie says lowly. She manages to move to her feet and looks around for her underwear. “But I was serious; I willna lie with you until we’re married.”

Too many arguments were at the tip of his tongue for Ichabod to do anything other than nod. He commits his perfect memory to watching Abbie slide her soiled underwear back up her delectable legs.

Abbie fans herself and glances back at him with fond exasperation. 

“You look as if I have taken your whole world away.”

“I dinna mean to attempt to influence you,” Ichabod says as he closes his eyes and tries to smooth his expression. “My body hurts in its longing for you.” 

Closing his eyes helps nothing and he almost hisses as his cock throbs anew.

With his eyes closed Abbie is free to glance down at his crotch and feels herself continue to drip. It wouldn’t have taken her long to reach her peak, and the itch between her legs is insistent. 

“Are you alright?”

“I will be, treasure,” he says, his eyes still closed as he remains on his knees. “I just need the blood to redistribute.”

“How long does that normally take?” Abbie asks, curious.

“Normally nae long, when the source of my arousal isnae around. When I canna smell her in my beard, nor can I recall her feel on my tongue,” he says.

Abbie licks her lips. 

“Do you want to touch yourself?” she asks.

“Nay,” Ichabod says, opening his eyes as his voice drops into that baritone that only serves to make her wet. 

“If I am to be honest, it is _you_ I want to touch _me_.”

Abbie bites her lip, arrested by his gaze. She nods once and removes the tie at her waist, letting it fall to the ground. Ichabod’s eyes widen as she lifts the dress over her head, leaving just her underwear on her lower half. His gaze then jumps to her breasts and her nipples tighten as he licks his lips.

She approaches him slowly, as if he were a caged animal, reaching out to touch his cheek with her small hand. Ichabod leans into the touch with a whimper, and bites at the skin of her wrist as she comes closer. Abbie twists out of his grasp and he’s reduced to a whine as she plucks at his shirt. 

“Take it off.”

Ichabod doesn’t know when his eyes fell shut again but he opens them and practically rips the offending garment from his body before she pushes him onto his back. 

“Dinna move,” she warns.

“I will do my best,” he murmurs, and lifts his head to watch her regard the bulge of his groin. 

Knowing she is so close makes him harden even more and he groans low and long when she slides his kilt up his sensitive shaft and away. The cool air is shocking against his hot skin and Ichabod tries his best not to shake. 

Abbie stares at Ichabod’s cock, long and thick with a head almost purple. His foreskin is pulled back tightly by his erection and she licks her lips at the pearl of moisture gathering at the slit. It is far larger than she anticipated, even in the dirty corners of her imagination. How was this supposed to fit inside of her?

Feeling faint, Abbie forces herself to remember to breathe or she’ll pass out. She looks up to see Ichabod’s gaze trained on hers. 

“Yours is the first I’ve ever seen up close,” she admits. 

“I’d ask what you think but I dinna know if my ego could withstand it.” 

He sounds as if he’s being strangled, and Abbie can see why. 

Abbie huffs and crawls up his torso to throw a leg over, straddling him so she traps his cock between them. She groans at the heat she feels against her core and immediately his hands fall to her waist. Her mouth falls open as she feels it twitch against her. 

“Oh, my god, it has a mind of its own,” she mutters, and grinds down on it. 

“Abbie…” Ichabod warns, helpless to do anything but clutch her hips as she begins to undulate against him.

“Oh, my god,” she whispers, shocked at the sensations waking in her body. She bears down and throws her head back as Ichabod thrusts up, hard enough to make her breasts bounce. She groans long and loud as she feels that movement down her spine and to her fingertips. 

“Do that again,” she demands, and Ichabod widens his legs and grits his teeth.

“Aye,” he grounds out, and shoves up against her core, dragging her against his shaft. It feels so good, the fabric of Abbie’s underwear thins as her juices continue to soak through, and he works his cock against her until he can feel her button hard against the base of his dick. 

_There._

Mesmerized by their movement, Ichabod reaches for Abbie’s breasts. He palms their weight gently and rolls her nipples in his fingers. Abbie clutches his hands to her breasts, biting her lip and chasing her completion. Ichabod realizes she can’t get the friction she needs because she can’t bear down hard enough with her slight weight; he rolls them so he’s on top, and pulls her against him, grinding down hard.

Abbie sobs in relief, pulling at her nipples before reaching up and bringing him down for a kiss. Like this, cramped together and rutting against each other, the feeling begins to build and build and Abbie breaks apart, shuddering into Ichabod’s kiss as he swallows her screams.

He can feel her pulsing against him and imagines being buried to the hilt, feeling her contract around his cock and he’s coming, so hard his vision whites out. With a roar, he continues to thrust against her, mindless in the throes of release.

When he does come through the euphoria, Ichabod kisses Abbie tenderly. 

“You take care of me so well,” he croons, placing tiny kisses on her face as he struggles to not make it a second go. 

“Thank you,” he says.

“I have never done anything like that before,” she says, preening under his praise. “I guess it’s my turn to risk my ego by asking if you liked it?” 

Abbie tries to keep her tone light as she looks away but Ichabod hears her uncertainty.

“My treasure, you are exquisite,” he murmurs as he places a deliberately soft kiss just behind her ear, smiling as she trembles. “You are more than I have ever hoped for and I look forward to our wedding night to completely show you what you do to me regularly.”

Abbie feels herself flush under his gaze, and suddenly feels shy about her state of undress. 

“Maybe we should return,” she says, slipping from beneath him and quickly dressing. Ichabod watches her with a fond smile, and pulls on his shirt when she’s done. He waits for her to retrieve her picked flowers before he takes her hand and presses a kiss to her palm and leads her to Cadeyrn.


	6. Tokens of Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod gives Abbie a gift close to his heart and brings her a gift close to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut. lol Also, bitches love libraries.

Days turn into weeks as summer settles in Duhnorum Valley and with it the realization that Abbie is losing her conviction to punish and resist Ichabod and his advances. When the man puts his mind--and other things if she’s being honest--to the task, it’s difficult to muster the resistance. So far he has respected her wishes, but in her heart of hearts Abbie knows those wishes are changing. 

He gives her space, and inquires after her day though they spend most of them together. The O’Leary family are a welcome addition to the previous silence. Young Aidan reminds Abbie much of a young boy from her clan named Elton. He, too, is chubby-cheeked with a bit of a tummy.

Today, she’s out in the warm summer air, watching Aidan and Famhair dart around each other with an exuberance that only the very young and unencumbered can conjure. Maighread is out back washing clothes and Abbie offered to keep an eye on the babe without hesitation.

Abbie caught Maighread’s quick expression before verifying that Abbie honestly wouldn’t mind; the older woman was probably thinking Abbie is yearning for a young one of her own. Abbie rouses from her reverie as Aidan stumbles over, tripping slightly over Famhair, who seems to have doubled in size from the painfully tiny pup he was at his arrival.

“Allie A’gail,” Aidan whispers breathlessly. “I found you a thing!” 

His grubby hand opens and a half crushed wildflower blossom is presented in all its forlorn glory.

“You did?” Abbie asks enthusiastically, crouching so she’s on his level. “It’s so beautiful! How did you find it?”

Aiden turns red at her excitement and points behind him shyly. 

“On the ground,” he murmurs lowly. 

“I’m nae surprised you found it, you know why?” Abbie whispers to him loudly. 

Aiden shakes his head and attempts to hide his face in Abbie’s skirt.

“Because we’re close to the ground so we find special things. Think you can find me a fairy?” 

The child gasps. 

“Yes,” Aidan whispers against her knee, and runs off into the tall grass with Famhair. 

Abbie laughs and stills; turning, she sees Ichabod standing on the path that diverts around the castle, leading to the stables and the river’s edge. 

“What are you looking at?” she asks, shielding her gaze from the sun high above. 

“You,” he says simply.

“Ach, you’ve naught better to do?” Abbie teases, glancing away in attempt to hide her grin. 

“Nay. Naught is better than looking upon your loveliness,” he says, ambling toward her. 

Abbie’s breath hitches as he comes closer, and she finds herself admiring his gait and the swing of his kilt against his knees. He stops just before her, close enough to lean down and kiss her, and she wonders if he’ll ask.

She wants him to.

“Is that so,” Abbie manages to say, glancing away to track Aidan and Famhair. 

“Do you enjoy spending time with the boy?” he asks, suddenly curious. “You seem happy.”

“I do. I like children; they tend to be uncomplicated in their wants and needs,” Abbie says. “it isnae difficult to make them happy.”

“Aye; you have a large heart and I dinna want you to be taken advantage of,” he says, and she scoffs. 

“The minding of one child is hardly being taken advantage of. Besides, it isnae like I have aught else to do right now,” she declares, squinting up at him. 

Aidan and Famhair tumble out of the tall grass with giggles and barks, and the young boy stops short when he sees Ichabod. Aidan’s eyes go wide and he looks unsure to approach. 

“Come, Aidan, you can say hello to Lord Ichabod,” Abbie cajoles.

Aiden totters close and ducks behind Abbie’s skirts, looking up at Ichabod as if he were something terrifying. Abbie caresses the child’s cheek and chuckles. 

“You’re too tall for him,” she tells Ichabod.

“There’s naught I can do for that,” he sputters with a laugh.

“There is. Come down to our level,” she teases, and tugs on his forearm.

Ichabod smiles at Abbie fondly and kneels before them both, suddenly an inch or two shorter than Abbie.

“Is this better, Aidan?” he asks, peeking around Abbie’s red skirt to find the boy’s face.

Aiden blinks up at him and nods, and holds his hand out to him with a smile. 

“I found a fairy,” he whispers loudly, and Ichabod leans forward to be presented with a misshapen rock.

“That’s –” Abbie places just a finger on his shoulder and Ichabod clears his throat. “That’s an amazing fairy. Where’d you find it?” he asks instead. 

Aiden points toward where they’d come from. 

“More?”

“This one is so fine I dinna think I need any more,” Ichabod says, and accepts the rock gratefully. “I’ll keep this one.” 

Aidan beams next to Famhair, whose tail is wagging so hard it threatens to kick up a wind of its own. 

“Thank you, Aidan. Maybe you can find me one now?” Abbie asks, and laughs when boy and puppy take off like a shot. 

“You didna want me to tell him this was a mere rock?” Ichabod asks with a risen eyebrow.

“Nay, because I asked him to find me a fairy.”

“Fairies dinna exist,” he reminds her.

“It never ceases to amaze me how smart you are! But children are still susceptible to wonder outside of books and I think they should hold onto that as long as they can, before iron and steel invade their minds and they turn into us,” she says.

“You feel strongly about childhood,” he says, looking at her strangely.

Abbie nods.

“Children should be protected, which means it’s important they _stay_ children,” she says.

Ichabod cocks his head. 

“You’re distressed. Have I said something?”

Abbie shakes her head quickly, cupping his cheek. 

“Memories,” she says with a shaky smile.

“Want to tell me about them?” he asks.

Abbie searches his face and her smile turns sad. 

“Nay,” she says. “But perhaps I will, one day.” 

She leans forward and kisses Ichabod on the cheek, lingering long enough for it to turn into a hug. 

“I think I’m going to lie down, okay?” 

“Are you alright?” Ichabod asks, his arms tightening around her waist, reluctant to release her. 

“Yes, my darling,” she whispers, and steps out of his embrace. “Aidan, Famhair, come! We’re going to take a nap. The sun is getting to be too much.” 

Abbie glances at Ichabod, still kneeling where she left him, and turns back to the castle. 

Ichabod watches as Aidan clambers after her, face red and streaked with dirt and holding back yawns. Famhair trots up to him, and licks Ichabod’s fingers until he rises to his feet. 

“Aye, you heard your mistress,” he tells the puppy. 

“And who said you could grow?” he asks. “At this rate you’re gonna earn your name.”

Famhair barks in what appears to be agreement.

~*~

Abbie sleeps through dinner and wakes with a strange sort of ache in her chest. She misses her family and wonders what her mother and father are doing. 

_Probably asleep_ , she reasons as she slides from her bed and grabs her robe from the chair. 

Her thoughts fall on Jenny, and wonder when her travels will return her to clan and family. 

She treks to the kitchens in search of leftovers and finds a bit of flavorful fish stew and fennel dumplings. Abbie doesn’t bother to heat it and it still tastes good, and along with a bit of wine she satisfies her hunger and feels infinitely better. 

Abbie’s on her second cup of wine when Ichabod steps into the kitchen, looking satisfied at her empty plate. 

“I worried when you slept through dinner. I gave word you werena to be disturbed.”

“I woke and Aidan and Famhair were long gone. I was just so exhausted I rose long enough to change into my nightgown and went back to sleep. Thank you for letting me rest, though I dinna know why I’m so sleepy considering I havena done anything approximating work in over a moon,” she says.

Ichabod chuckles. 

“There are schools of thought that suppose exhaustion isnae always merely physical,” he says. “Perhaps that’s what plagues you.”

Abbie considers the memories dredged up that day and is inclined to agree. 

“Why are you up so late?” she asks, instead. 

“Waiting for you.” Ichabod offers his hand and Abbie looks at him with a questioning grin before accepting it. 

“I have prepared a surprise for you and it wisna complete until late this afternoon.” 

Abbie is immensely curious as she allows him to lead her through the winding corridors and down a hall she had yet to explore. The torches on the walls have been dusted and lit and the air feels differently in this part of the castle; there’s something familiar about the scent in the air. 

Before she can ask what it is they stop at a set of double doors.

“Will you close your eyes?”

Abbie purses her lips but complies when Ichabod looks wounded at the mere idea she would not. She feels the rush of air on her face and neck and the warmth of his hand as he takes one of hers and pulls her forward. The odor in the air is definitely stronger, and she turns in a circle, her eyes still closed. 

“Can I open them?” she asks, almost vibrating when he releases her and she feels like she can float away.

“One moment,” Ichabod says, and he sounds like he’s across the room. She reaches out immediately, a small part of her afraid. Her heart stops thudding when his hand envelopes hers again and she feels her anticipation return. 

“Alright you may open, _mo gràdh_.”

Abbie does, and gasps. 

The walls of the room are covered with shelf after shelf, all covered in books. That’s what she was smelling, the wonderful scent of paper and ink. Abbie releases Ichabod’s hand as she wanders close to the tomes, her hand hovering just over their spines. 

“This is…”

“This is one of my favorite places in the entire world and I had completely forgotten about it. My father had this library built because my mother loves to read and has passed that love to me. As a token of his love he spared no expense gathering these books. It took three years, but finally this room was finished to specifications necessary to keep the books warm and dry heedless of the weather outside. He presented it to her the summer before my ninth year.”

Abbie blinks away the sudden onslaught of tears welling in her eyes. 

“This is… beautiful,” she murmurs. “So much knowledge. Why are you showing this to me?”

“Because I want you to feel free to come here and enjoy yourself. Perhaps this can serve as yet another way we may learn about each other.” 

Ichabod searches her face for any sign of displeasure and grins hesitantly when he finds none. 

“You’ll have to show me your favorite books,” she says breathlessly, grabbing his hand. “And if they’re here, I’ll show you mine.”

“Some of these are in different languages. French, Italian, and Latin. I can translate for you if you’d like,” he offers, preening when she looks back at him.

“No need,” Abbie says offhand as she reaches out to touch the tomes. “I told you I speak French and Italian.”

“And Latin?” he asks, moving to stand beside her. 

Abbie gives him a grin before she grabs the step stool from beside one of the plush chairs in the middle of the room. She stands and wobbles just slightly; Ichabod immediately places his hands on her waist to steady her. 

“Well, I thought it prudent to learn,” she says as she returns to reading the titles.

Ichabod blinks. 

“When?” he demands.

“After the last time we spoke. Remember you recited that poem to me and you wouldna tell me what it meant, just that it was Latin?” Abbie looks down at him and raises her eyebrow. “I wanted to know what you were saying.”

Ichabod stares up at her in wonder. 

“And you learned Latin just for that?”

Abbie turns to find him closer than she realizes. 

“I couldna let you have all the fun,” she murmurs, glancing down at his lips. 

“Abbie?” he rumbles as she turns in his grasp.

“Yes?”

“May I kiss you?” he asks, feeling his body flush warm all over. 

Abbie, as breathless as he, nods. 

“Aye,” she says shakily. At this height her arms naturally fall around his neck as she draws him closer, intending on just a chaste peck.

Well, maybe something a little less than chaste.

But what Abbie did not anticipate were the deft fingers at the tie of her robe, opening it and revealing her gown, diaphanous in the torchlight. Her nipples strain against the gossamer fabric and Ichabod thumbs the insistent peaks and swallows her surprised groan with a deep kiss. 

Immediately Abbie’s wet and wants him between her legs. It’s like Ichabod hears her need and lifts her from the stool so she can wrap her legs around his waist. They break the kiss to breathe and immediately his mouth is at her throat as he presses her against the books, his manhood making itself known against her core.

“I’ve never known anyone like you, Abbie,” he groans, palming her ass and pressing her hard against his front. 

“I canna wait to make you my wife and keep you always, my treasure. To make you mother of my children.” 

Abbie is reduced to a creature of sensation, her heart stuttering at Ichabod’s words. She knew children would be involved but it was such an abstract concept; for him to ask her with such… _intent_ … 

Abbie knows he’d fill her with progeny right now if she let him. As he mouths the sensitive skin of her neck she wonders if that would be such a bad thing. 

“What say ye, Abbie?” he grumbles, and punctuates his inquiry with a swirl of his hips. “Will you have my children?”

“Aye,” Abbie sobs, trying to get the bit of friction her body desperately needs. She whines, unable to obtain it, and tears fall for real when Ichabod kisses her and slides his hand beneath her gown. His long fingers come in contact with her sodden curls and he curses at the heat against the pads of his fingertips, sinking two digits in to the knuckle.

Abbie gasps and throws her head back. 

“Ichabod, please,” she begs, reduced to pleading for relief. 

“I will nae think less of you if you need me before we marry,” Ichabod promises as he pumps his fingers in and out of Abbie shallowly, swallowing at the way he can feel her clutch him from within and the subconscious movement of her hips. 

“I have dedicated myself to seeing to your every need. Your mind, your heart, and your body, Abbie.” 

He thrusts his fingers in hard, using his thumb to press against the hard button of her sex.

Tears stream down Abbie’s face and she’s completely unaware as she chases release, riding Ichabod’s hand and holding onto him for dear life. 

“Stupid Ichabod Crane,” she mutters aloud. “With your stupid beautiful face and stupid kind eyes and… oh god, just... right there,” she wails, and pulls him to her face in a punishing kiss. 

He vibrates his thumb against her and Abbie breaks apart, ceasing to exist for what feels like an eon before coming back to herself in time to watch Ichabod lick her essence from his fingers. 

“Oh, dinna cry, my treasure,” he croons, kissing her tears away softly. “Did I hurt you?”

Abbie chuckles breathlessly and shakes her head. 

“No, no you didna.”

“Why are you crying?”

“There are times I am so angry with you I canna breathe.” She sniffs and looks at him. “And then others… What am I to do with you?”

Ichabod’s heart aches and he nuzzles against her, words failing him. She holds him close and hums something he cannot recognize and they stay that way until the first torch goes out.

~*~

When they part, Abbie returns to her room and falls into bed, only to dream of the lurch of a boat beneath her feet. She’s alone on the boat, no one at the wheel that just spins and spins. Eventually the deck turns to grass, and she’s walking against the salty air in a heavy cloak. 

Her stomach is round with child and there’s another, clutching her hand and walking beside her. It’s a little boy, and his back is turned as he points toward the sea, and Abbie looks where he points at ships with clan colors, circling in tight formation.

Mills.

Reynolds.

Cranes.

_What does it mean?_

Abbie shouts because the danger is all around but nothing comes from her throat. A small hand tugs on her own and she looks down. Her son is calm, staring back with her father’s eyes and Ichabod’s serious expression. 

“Behind you,” he says, in a voice much deeper than his body should be able to produce.

Abbie turns to the glint of steel arcing toward her, and as she raises her hands to defend them, she tumbles into Ian, who gallops her around into the room in time to Angus’ furious fiddling. 

Siobhan and Maighread clap their hands as Famhair barks at their skirts, eager to join in. 

Ichabod is dancing with Aidan, who is barely doing more than wiggling his body excitedly. 

_Everyone’s so happy_ , Abbie thinks. _But there’s something I have to tell them. They have to –_

Abbie jerks awake, blinking in the brightness of a summer day. She’s slept through breakfast again, and lunch is probably due soon. Her limbs feel like stone and she falls back onto her bed, trying to remember her dream beyond the fear echoing in her chest.

~*~

_“Her melancholy deepens. Naught I do seems to lift her spirits. She is either in her room or in the library.” Ichabod admits as he rubs Cadeyrn down. “Two days she rejects my company. I have attempted to apologize for whatever I have done to offend her, but she tells me I havena. I am at a loss.”_

_Bram sighs loudly in the stall beside him._

_“Ye know I love ye like a brother, Ichabod.”_

_Ichabod raises an eyebrow at Cadeyrn._

_“I do,” he says._

_“Then I’m gonna tell ye how I feel.”_

_He gathers his thoughts as he brushes Ruby’s sides with sure strokes._

_“I regret every day I let ye sway me ta this plan,” Bram says. “We’ve plucked a flower that was built to bloom in a garden, and we’ve replanted her in a desert.”_

_Ichabod’s expression hardens._

_“I didna wish this to be our only option,” he says. “But you know it was. Ezra would never let us marry.”_

_“Aye, and neither would Orrin,” Bram concedes. “Still disna make it right. She’s away from her kin and friends. Sadness is somethin’ ta be expected. Ye charm her, I’m sure, but she’s essentially alone.”_

_Ichabod nods, and rubs his hands along his horse’s neck._

_“She’s spending more time in her room asleep. I think she’s eaten once in the past three days.” He sighs. “What should I do?”_

_Bram scoffs._

_“Now ye ask? Ichabod, that’s always yer problem.”_

_“So you have naught of worth to contribute to the situation,” Ichabod says. “I just have to woo her harder.”_

_“I dinna think that’s the issue. She needs somethin’ ta lift her spirits. Something beyond ye and my own magnanimous personality.”_

_Bram considers._

_“Perhaps ye should think of takin’ her out of the valley.”_

_“Too risky,” Ichabod says, immediately dismissing the idea._

_“And why is that, Ichabod?” Bram asks tiredly._

_“Because Abbie has been gone long enough for people to begin trying to find her. Someone will see her and when they’re asked, they will remember her. My treasure does nae exactly blend in where she goes.”_

_“Aye,” Bram agrees._

_“So…” he considers. “Then we bring some happiness ta her.”_

~*~

Ichabod announces his presence in the library with a quick rap of his knuckles against the stone wall. 

“ _Mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs to avoid startling Abbie. “Can you join me upstairs?”

Abbie lets her head loll so she can watch Ichabod approach. 

“Lunch already? I’m nae hungry,” she says, clutching the book on her lap. “I’ll come up for some tea a little later.”

Ichabod does his best not to be alarmed at how sad Abbie sounds, and crouches before her so she doesn’t have to strain her neck. 

“I’m worried that you’re nae eating,” he says.

“Dinna fash yourself; you eat enough for the both of us,” she attempts to joke. Her smile, already wan, drops off completely when Ichabod doesn’t join in. 

“Sometimes my appetite comes and goes. Nothing to worry about.” 

“But I do,” he says quietly, taking one of her hands in his. “Canna you just join me upstairs? You dinna have to eat; you can just watch me.”

Abbie pulls her hand out of Ichabod’s grasp and pats the book. 

“As enticing as that sounds, perhaps another time,” she says quietly.

“I wish I hadna been driven to do this,” Ichabod says, shaking his head and looking woeful. 

That is the only warning Abbie gets before he reaches over and lifts her from the chair easily.

“Ichabod Crane, you put me down!” Abbie shrieks, clutching him as he pretends to wobble.

“I tried to do it the civilized way,” Ichabod says, ignoring her as he pries the book from her small hands and rests it on the table next to her newly vacated chair. 

“How is this civilized,” Abbie yelps, attempting to twist out of his grasp. He merely looks at her, amusement faint in his gaze and she stops, realizing the futility. 

“You are nae civilized,” she sniffs. 

“I am,” he reassures her, and moves out of the room smoothly. 

“I am concerned about you,” he whispers into her hair as he holds her close.

Abbie plays with the edge of his collar and lays her head against his shoulder. 

“Why?” she asks.

“Your sadness,” Ichabod says simply, taking the winding stairs slowly. “It makes me sad as well.”

Abbie sighs and closes her eyes. 

“I’m sorry; I dinna wish to cause you pain.”

“My pain comes from knowing you are in pain,” Ichabod says quickly. “I meant it when I said I wanted you happy. That I would do anything I needed in order for it to be so.” 

They crest the ground floor and enter into the great room.

“I knew he’d treat you like a queen but this may be a _bit_ much.”

Abbie jerks at the voice and opens her eyes as she attempts to twist out of Ichabod’s grasp. He chuckles and sets her on her feet gently, stepping aside as Abbie and Katrina leap at each other joyfully. 

“When did you get here?” Abbie asks, holding her best friend tightly. 

“We just got in only a few minutes ago,” Katrina says, clutching her just as tightly. 

“Oh, my darling, it’s been too long,” she says, kissing Abbie’s cheeks enthusiastically. 

Bram walks in and watches the two women weep and greet each other. 

“Good lord,” he murmurs as he comes to stand beside Ichabod. “Ye’d think it’s been years since they saw each other.”

“I can hear you,” Abbie says, laughing as she breaks from Katrina, taking her hand and nudging her with her shoulder. “Who am I to thank for this?”

Katrina smiles at her intended. 

“Bram, but I think the thanking should be left to me, yes?”

Abbie beams up at her. 

“Aye. Are you hungry? When was the last time you ate?” 

At the question her own stomach growls loudly.

“Sounds like I should be asking you the same thing. I brought so much stuff, Bram almost wanted to leave me behind so he’d have room in the carriage. I told him he’d be lucky to find his family jewels by the time I was done with him,” Katrina says as she winks at Bram. “So show me the kitchens and we’ll whip up something like old times.”

Abbie glances at Bram and Ichabod as she’s led from the room. 

“Are we sure the menfolk can take it?” she whispers loudly.

“We’ll test their mettle,” Katrina says. “Go unload and we’ll call you when everything’s ready.”

Ichabod looks at Bram as the women disappear down the corridor. 

“And you’re sure this is the best idea you could come up with?” he asks.

“Aye, I’m afraid, too,” Bram says. “Now let’s go unload. Katrina brought honey cakes and I plan ta have my fill.”

~*~

Ichabod, Abbie, Katrina, and Bram elect to eat at the smaller table in the kitchen so they may pass dishes and drink back and forth with ease as they talk about everything and anything. 

Instead of savory dishes, Abbie and Katrina prepare raspberry cranachan, many massive clootie dumplings, and a substantial tipsy laird made with whisky that has Abbie squealing for joy.

“Oh, you’ll love this,” she promises Ichabod as she pours his tankard full. 

“I feel like a child that has died and gone ta heaven,” Bram says eagerly as he stares at the spread as Katrina continues to put dessert after dessert before them. 

“Not when you get a taste of that whisky,” Abbie says. 

“I havena had this since our trip up to the Northern Coast,” she reminds Katrina, who laughs and licks her thumb where a bit of custard lands.

“It’s gonna knock you on your ass, my love,” Katrina promises. “And it’s in the laird, so take caution.”

Ichabod’s already filling his bowl with large scoops, a huge smile on his face. He hasn’t seen Abbie as animated and free as she is now, even before she fell into her despondency. 

“I’ll try, but I havena had laird in years,” he says.

“Oh no, years?” Abbie looks absolutely stricken as she takes his hand, and bursts into laughter.

Ichabod’s heart swells as he ducks his head. Abbie’s laughter is so very precious, he realizes, and he hadn’t until he no longer heard it. He doesn’t mind being the butt of a joke or two. He watches to make sure Abbie partakes, and she does – laughing and giggling as she and Katrina try to outdrink he and Bram. 

Ichabod’s shocked at how the northern whisky hits him; just a refill and a half in and his head swims just a bit and he feels warm beneath the kilt but also wonderful. And somehow the tale of Bram’s first time is tumbling from his lips. 

The girls are shrieking with laughter as Ichabod rises to his feet to re-enact Bram’s attempt to woo a well-versed lady from a tavern they’d ridden to for celebration. 

“My lady,” Ichabod says, holding his neck stiffly like Bram, “Yer tits… they require congratulations,” he slurs. 

“Oh, no,” Abbie groans, tears streaming down her cheeks as Katrina looks embarrassed for him. 

“My love, tell me you didn’t,” she gasps in between giggles.

“I canna, I’d be lyin’,” Bram says into his cup. “I’m nae nearly drunk enough ta hear this again.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” Ichabod warns. “His next compliment is actually; did it take long to make your hair do the twisty thing?”

Katrina squints in confusion as Abbie tries to figure out what he meant. 

Bram sighs loudly. 

“She had braids in her hair,” he says. “I couldna remember the word, lord gracious alive.” 

Abbie and Katrina collapse into laughter again. 

“I canna believe ye stand there as if ye are a model of charm, Ichabod Crane.” Bram takes a long swallow and shakes his head. “Let me set the scene, shall I?” 

Abbie whoops and Katrina bounces and claps eagerly. 

“You dinna have to,” Ichabod says as he finds his seat.

“I do,” Bram says gravely. “For what are friends for?” 

Abbie and Katrina lean forward eagerly. 

“It’s Ichabod’s sixteenth year an’ he’s decided he wants ta be a man in all things. That by rights he should bed a willing wench fair of face and curvy of body.”

Katrina stuffs her mouth with dumplings eagerly. 

“I can imagine _that_ speech,” she says, and winks at Ichabod.

“The sheer amount of ill will at this table,” he says sourly.

“An’ of course I say, ‘but Ichabod... ye have never kissed a woman before, let alone bedded one. Should ye nae attempt a kiss first?’”

Ichabod stares at Bram incredulously. 

“That is nae what you said,” he sputters. 

Bram shakes his head and continues. 

“I only try ta be the voice of reason in a mad world. Where was I? Oh, yes. So Ichabod’s father had entertainment for the entire clan ta help celebrate such a princely affair, an’ in said entertainment were dancers an’ acrobats. 

“One such dancer was a woman of at least twenty an’ two years who could contort her body ta create these amazing illusions with colored scarves. While she’s performin’, Ichabod points at her an’ says, ‘she is the one who will be mine, and if she’s good enough, I may marry her and take her away from this life of endless travel.’”

Ichabod winces at the vim and vigor of his words, echoing down through time to when he thought his desires were the apex of the world. 

“Oh god, can you stop, please? I will pay you.”

“I will pay you to continue,” Abbie cheers. 

“I bow ta an adorin’ public,” Bram says, shrugging at Ichabod. “So afterward, Ichabod readies his room with candles an’ rose petals an’ he’d been told ta oil himself up before bedding the lass ta enflame her carnal desires.”

Abbie looks thoroughly confused. 

“Wait, like his entire body?”

“His entire body,” Bram confirms, barely catching Katrina before she tumbles from the bench. 

“So he goes searchin’ for oil and he uses the first he comes across; which I guess he didna smell in the throes of his excitement.”

“What kind of oil was it?” Abbie asks.

“Bram, please, cease these lies,” Ichabod pleads weakly. 

“Oh, if they be lies may god himself strike me dead.” 

Everyone pauses for a moment of silence and Bram continues gleefully. 

“What kind of oil?” Abbie demands.

“Castor.”

Abbie and Katrina’s eyes widen as they turn as one to look at Ichabod, who suddenly finds the bottom of his tankard extremely interesting. 

“Oh, no,” Katrina breathes. 

“So the dancer, who was flattered with Ichabod’s charmin’ tongue an’ handsome good looks, decides ta take him up on his offer for a bugger but ends up findin’ him forty-five minutes later than they’d agreed.” 

By now Abbie and Katrina are covering their mouths in efforts not to scream, tears streaming down their faces. 

“The oil has well an’ truly began workin’ because this bright fella had the heat goin’ an’ reapplied some while he waited.”

Ichabod sighs loudly. 

“The end,” he says brightly. 

“So the young lady comes tearing out of Ichabod’s room, screaming’, an’ we rush in to find him in a ball, everythin’ covered in shit,” Bram finishes proudly. 

“Oh, god, I canna,” Abbie breathes as she clutches her stomach. “Oh, god.”

“How long did it take for the clansmen ta stop laughin’ when you walked by?” Bram asks smugly.

Ichabod’s jaw works back and forth. 

“A good year,” he mutters. “I couldna look a girl in the eye for about as long.”

Katrina is almost sobbing through her laughter. 

“That is the best story I have ever heard,” she cries.

“Naught can top that,” Abbie agrees. “So you didna end up bedding the dancer.”

“Nay. That was well and truly ruined,” Ichabod says.

“You never answered my question. How many women have you lain with?” Abbie asks curiously.

Bram quickly refills their cups as Ichabod clears his throat. 

“Five,” he says.

“Five?” Bram asks in surprise. 

“Aye. I never told you about Sorcha,” Ichabod hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

“Who is Sorcha?” Abbie asks. 

“She used to look at Ichabod as if she wanted ta eat him,” Bram interrupts before Ichabod can reply.

“She was nae that bad; just over-enthusiastic. And she’s a young widow and required a bit of delicacy, that’s all,” Ichabod says as he straightens his shirt and clears his throat. “But you should be glad, Abbie.”

Bram’s eyes widen as Abbie stares at Ichabod with a small, strange smile on her face. 

“Why should I be glad you’ve slept with five women, Ichabod?” she asks sweetly.

Katrina and Bram are both subtly shaking their heads but Ichabod forges ahead with the bravery of the severely inebriated. 

“Because I have been able to practice and become learned of things that will only serve to bring you the highest of pleasure.”

“Oh, god,” Bram mutters. “Save the poor bastard.”

“I see,” Abbie murmurs, and Ichabod nods, happy she sees the purpose. “So I should be free to practice as well, right? By your reasoning, it’s only fair that I should be learned of the various carnal acts that you may enjoy.”

“Only if you continue to practice with Katrina,” Ichabod huffs.

Bram’s jaw drops as Katrina shrieks and whirls on her friend. 

“What?” Bram bellows eagerly as he turns to Katrina. 

“So that thing you can do with your tongue…” he trails off and Katrina blushes. 

“Abbie taught me that,” she admits.

Bram rises and with all seriousness comes to stand before Abbie. He takes her hand and bows deeply. 

“I am well an’ truly thankful,” he says, and only wobbles once on his way back up.

Abbie glares at Katrina. 

“You did that to him?” she hisses. 

“And you haven’t?” Katrina counters. “What happened to the Abbie who wasn’t going to wait until her wedding night to suck a man dry?”

Bram howls with scandalized laughter as Ichabod turns red in the face, the image of his beloved Abbie kneeling before him, her beautiful mouth around his cock. He swears and takes a long drink, trying to ignore his suddenly insistent cock. 

“I want details,” Bram says, and Ichabod tries not to look too interested, but he can’t take his eyes off of Abbie. 

She looks away as one of her hands flutters up her body to rub against the back of her neck and suddenly the heat he’s feeling isn’t just from the whisky.

Katrina titters and leans against Bram. 

“Summer of our seventeenth year and we hadn’t even kissed a boy yet. Everyone was just either annoying or demanding or really…”

“Gross,” Abbie murmurs.

“Exactly. Old men who wanted hugs that lasted longer and longer and things like that. We’ve got bodies and we feel things and we’re curious and suddenly Abbie brings up a good point. What do we do when we get our first kiss? We’d each set our sights on someone but we didn’t want to foul it up.”

“And practicing with your hand disna do anything,” Abbie says. “It canna give you critique. So Katrina mentions we’ve both got mouths, why dinna we practice on each other. Made perfect sense.”

“Sweet lord,” Ichabod groans, trying to think of anything but Katrina and Abbie kissing. 

“And so we practiced anything we were curious about,” Katrina says with a shrug. “We trust no one more than each other, so why not?”

Bram wipes his mouth and shakes his head. 

“Absolutely no reason why not,” he says firmly. “So can we see?”

“Bram,” Ichabod objects weakly, his cock having only just started to soften a little.

“Absolutely,” Katrina says, leaning into Bram with a seductive smile. “But first you and Ichabod kiss.”

Abbie sputters and laughs at the disappointment on Bram’s face. 

“Trade for a trade,” she says. “Only fair.”

“Not really. Ichabod has no lips,” he complains. 

It’s Ichabod’s turn to sputter as Abbie giggles. She coos at his sour expression and cups his cheek gently. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, and kisses him gently. 

“You have lips enough for me,” she says between giggles, and moves away when Ichabod attempts to deepen the kiss.

“Well, I want ta see, so pucker up,” Bram says. “It’s nae like we havena done this before.”

“It was a dare, and only one time,” Ichabod clarifies with a raised finger to the ladies as they begin to hoot lecherously. 

“I dinna just go around snogging my best friend,” he’s quick to add. 

“Why not, he’s gorgeous,” Katrina says, and yanks Bram down to give him a scorching kiss. 

When they part, they’re panting and she’s in his lap.

Ichabod stumbles off the bench, extremely hard and hot under the collar. 

“I need some air,” he chokes out as he leaves through the servants’ entrance out the back.

Abbie winces and chokes back a laugh as Katrina watches him leave. 

“He’s a bit hot, isn’t he?” she asks. 

“Probably.”

“Have you...you know?” Katrina moves her hips suggestively over Bram and he groans, his head dropping onto the tops of her breasts above her bodice.

“Almost,” Abbie says defensively.

“Oh, Abbie Mills, are you all talk?” Katrina asks gleefully. “Or did you forget all the depravity we’d planned before marriage?”

“Maybe,” she says. “What about you two?”

“Like someone forgot ta latch the barn door in a storm,” Bram says, his words slightly muffled against Katrina’s chest.

Abbie almost falls over as she rises off the bench, wobbling at the change in position. 

“And when do you plan to wed?”

“Eventually, Mum,” Katrina retorts before she presses a kiss to Bram’s forehead.

“I’ll be back. Dinna do anything I wouldna do,” Abbie throws over her shoulder as she moves to follow Ichabod. 

“Oh, bugger that,” Bram says, and the last thing Abbie hears is Katrina’s delighted squeal. 

The smile drops from Abbie’s face as she contemplates the paths before her; in the full summer moonlight everything appears just a bit otherworldly, and Abbie feels as if there’s no one in the world save her and the man she seeks.

The path splits; the left goes to the stables and the right turns down to the lake. Abbie pauses for merely a second before she takes the lake path, her sandals silent on the stones. The light fades a bit more; she doesn’t know if Ichabod took a torch with him or not.

She hears rustling and stops; there’s a groan and what sounds like someone choking on her name. Abbie moves forward, off the path and into the tall grass where it grows before ending in scrubby foliage. Abbie crouches down and parts what she can with her fingers as she nears the source of the noises. 

Abbie finally sees, and is thankful Ichabod had the sense to take a torch with him. It’s staked in the coarse sand beside his supine form, and Abbie is able to admire this lean body without scrutiny. He reclines beside the lake completely absorbed with the length of flesh between his legs.

She stifles a gasp as Ichabod’s head falls back and he pants in time with his strokes, long and hard. 

“Ach, Abbie,” he groans, and she bites her lip as he squeezes his length and grunts. His hand moves faster now as his hips move, making him fuck his own hand with an oily squelch. 

“Please, your lovely mouth…” he moans, and Abbie’s hand is shaking as it rises to her lips. 

He fantasizes about them? They’re just lips, just a mouth. Abbie wonders what Ichabod would do if she made herself known, walking down to kneel between his legs. Would she be able to take his entire length in her mouth? Surely not the first time, and with what she glimpses, maybe not ever. 

Heat flares beneath her bodice as she watches Ichabod tug himself to completion and she squeezes her thighs, hoping to quench her own arousal being almost forcibly called forth. How can this man have such an impact over her body, her mind and her heart?

He cries out and Abbie feels an echoing throb deep inside of herself. She has to bite her lip in order not to cry out with him, fascinated as his hips jerk repeatedly as he spends himself in the air. Abbie, now overwhelmingly warm, scampers back to the castle.

~*~

The next few days pass in a whirl of alcohol and laughter.

Abbie can’t remember the last time she’d felt so free. Katrina and Bram and even Ichabod goad each other into revealing hilarious and embarrassing secrets and talk about hopes and dreams. It’s like there’s a whole world within this valley, untouched by parents and their agendas, clans, or responsibilities. 

Of course it ends too soon, and Abbie finds it almost impossible to keep her spirits from sinking again. Her most treasured friend's departure looms and Abbie won't be there to see her off.

But she can’t be selfish; the Tanners run a moderately successful leatherworks and without Katrina’s deft hand and immense skill they wouldn’t have half the business they did. So she puts on a brave face while they try to make the best of their time together and the night before they ensure every last drop of the whisky has been drunk between them. 

Abbie stays awake in the darkness, listening for Katrina to return. She doesn’t have to wait long, and can sense the melancholia in Katrina as she climbs into bed and cuddles up to Abbie. 

“I didna think you were going to return,” Abbie admits, reaching out to twirl the end of Katrina’s braid between her fingers. 

“I didn’t think I was, either,” she admits. 

“When are you two going to get married?” Abbie whispers. “You carry on like lovesick children.”

Katrina falls silent.“I’ve seen Danny around before I left to come here,” she says after a while.

Abbie’s heart thumps loudly in her chest at the sound of his name. 

“…How is he doing?”

“Livid that you’re gone,” Katrina says bluntly. “He swears he’ll tear a hole in the countryside when he finds who took you.”

Abbie closes her eyes briefly and tries not to laugh. 

“When I see him next I will have to let him down gently. Again,” she amends. 

“Well, you know those Northmen. They don’t listen,” Katrina murmurs. “Jenny came back, too.”

Abbie squeals, and laughs when Katrina winces and attempts to pull away. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Abbie coos, trying to control her giggles. “I just miss my other sister. How is she?”

Katrina pauses. 

“There’s so much I want to tell you, Abbie. It never seems like the right time. It doesn’t seem like the right time now,” Katrina murmurs as she moves closer to rest her cheek on Abbie’s chest. 

Abbie smiles as she moves Katrina’s bangs from her face. 

“Every time we drink you get sad,” she says. “Never understood how you could be so sad with such red hair.”

Katrina giggles. 

“Jenny… Jenny looks good. Happy to be home, I’m sure, but the travel really sits well on her. She’s got a new sword and everything.”

“Oh, great. I’m sure my father just _loved_ that,” Abbie groans. “But you canna change Jenny Mills, may as well tell the tide ‘come back tomorrow.’”

“And you get poetic when we drink,” Katrina says, poking Abbie in the side. “Know how memories are inordinately clear before a big change is coming?”

Abbie considers. 

“Aye, I think I can understand that.”

“I can’t marry Bram.” Katrina sighs loudly.

Abbie’s hand stills where she’s running her fingers through Katrina’s hair. 

“What are you talking about? You love him.”

“I do, but you know love isn’t always the answer.”

“But you have nothing stopping you from marrying into the Crane clan,” Abbie points out.

“My father has decided to reject Bram and take us to the New World.”

Abbie sputters, and rolls out of her grasp and off of the bed. 

“What? What are you talking about?” she hisses, and scrambles to light the candles so she can see. “That literally makes no sense.”

Katrina sits up in the bed, wincing at the light but not quite looking at Abbie. 

“My father is tired of having to fight and he’s been listening to friends and family who tell him an Englishman can make a great life for himself in the New World. He says we can’t do worse than we’re doing now.”

“But it canna be that bad?” Abbie asks, climbing back on the bed.

“It is, according to my father.”

“I will tell my clan to buy from your family more,” she vows.

“My father’s pride would strike him dead,” Katrina says, and shakes her head. “Nay, he’s already sold the tannery and land back to your clan.”

“Wait, what? Already?” Abbie is shaking her head. “You talk like I willna see you again,” she says, tears already beginning to fall.

Katrina reaches out and gently wipes one away with her thumb. 

“Please don’t cry for me,” she says. “I’m more worried about you than anything.”

Abbie turns into her touch and sobs. 

“Ichabod and I –”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Katrina says. “Things are different now that you’re gone. There are more Reynolds and Parkers about Glendhu than Mills it seems, and I was only able to see Jenny once before I had to come but she’s angry. Your mother doesn’t have the confidence of the older hands of the clan because they think she’s hiding something.”

“My mother has never told a lie in her life,” Abbie scoffs. “Save when she told me if I touched a man’s penis before I married my hand would fall off.”

“She hides your father’s health.”

Abbie stills. 

“There’s naught wrong with my father,” she whispers. “He just needs rest.”

Katrina shakes her head sadly. 

“It’s gotten worse since… you’ve been away,” she says. 

“What are they saying?” Abbie demands. 

“No one knows for sure. It’s kept as tight as it can and you know I don’t have access without you.”

“What have you heard, Katrina?”

“Sundown sickness,” she says flatly.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“It’s nae that bad, though. Aye, he forgets some things, but it’s never anything big and it comes back to him. He just gets tired faster so it’s better if he conducts business in the morning.”

“Abbie, my rose, what did you just describe?” Katrina prods, gently. 

“No, no…” Abbie murmurs. “If I go back unmarried it will be war between the Mills and Cranes. They’ll kill Ichabod and his entire clan, wipe them from the face of the Earth.” 

She glances away, shaking her head. 

“I canna have that blood on my hands. I have to trust my mother and sister to do what’s needed right now.”

“I can’t pretend to know what you should do, or even what’s best. I also don’t know if we’re entirely sober enough for such heavy conversation,” Katrina says as she sways a little. “We need sleep.”

“Aye.” Abbie slides from the bed to put out the candles, plunging the room into cool darkness. She returns to the bed and Katrina’s side, but sleep doesn’t come for hours yet.


	7. For Whom The Bell Tolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie makes a surprising move.

Abbie and Katrina attempt to cram in a lifetime of laughter, jokes and tears in the course of three days. They drink more than they should, laugh harder than the jokes are funny and are completely honest with each other because as long as time could hold its breath then they could pretend their time together won’t end. 

It’s hard to be magnanimous when your best friend’s time is so short and precious, but Abbie holds her tongue and gives Bram room to mourn someone who isn’t dead yet. With an aching heart, she watches them touch each other like they’re both made of blown glass, sitting at the edge of a shaking shelf.

The day before Bram is to return Katrina a feast is prepared; Abbie cooks most of the food and what she doesn’t, she closely supervises. There’s all of Katrina’s favorites; sausage rolls, steak and ale pie, vegetable stew with herb dumplings and sticky toffee pudding. Everything smells amazing and is presented with love and care.

No one has touched a bit.

Abbie pours herself another drink and passes the decanter wordlessly to Katrina, who immediately fills her goblet as well. 

“So are we merely to drink? Is the food enchanted?” Ichabod asks after he’s drained his goblet as well.

“Aye. I honestly dinna know if I have the will ta eat tonight,” Bram says. 

He’s slouching in his chair and his right hand firmly entwined around Katrina’s left. 

“The world is truly at an end when Bram Bowie hasna an appetite.” 

Ichabod’s attempted joke falls flat and Abbie can’t help but touch his hand in solidarity.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Katrina murmurs, squeezing Bram’s hand briefly. 

Ichabod tries again. 

“Should we nae at least _try_ to make tonight happy? So that our last memories together are one of mirth and enjoyment, nae contemplative melancholy?”

“Aye,” Abbie says after a moment. “I, for one, have had enough of being sad. Bram, I suggest you find an appetite somewhere because we’ve got entirely too much food for any normal people to eat before it spoils.”

Bram clutches his chest and blinks rapidly. 

“What, are ye callin’ me _unnatural_?” he asks, feigning offense. 

“Absolutely,” Abbie says loftily. “Now someone pass the sausage buns before I’m tempted to crawl ‘cross the table.”

Katrina snorts into her goblet and laughs, loudly and gaily. 

“Ichabod,” she sings, “has our little dove told you about the time she was dared to dance a jig on the table of McFarrin’s?”

Abbie’s eyes widen. 

“Dinna dare, Katrina Tanner, or I will chase you about this table and pull your pretty red hair!” she roars, rising to her feet. 

“As if I’m scared of a pintsized scrapper!” Katrina fires back, slipping from her chair to stand behind it. “All talk, aren’t you?”

“Take that back,” Ichabod warns. “My Abbie will have you for that one, Katrina.”

“As if me bonnie lass couldna and wouldna hesitate ta toss someone already half her size,” Bram bellows.

Abbie gapes and points her finger. 

“I’ll get you, Bram Bowie, just you wait. But this particular beating has Katrina Tanner assigned.”

Katrina shrieks as Abbie takes off around the table to catch her, both men attempting to help their woman by impeding the progress of the other. 

“We should stop this before we have a fight on our hands,” Ichabod roars over Abbie and Katrina’s breathless screams and laughter. 

“Aye, so what should we do?” Bram asks. “I grab mine, ye grab yers?”

“Aye,” Ichabod agrees, and swoops Abbie up just as she passes his chair.

She yelps and clings to his neck, laughing as Katrina tumbles into Bram’s lap, red-faced and giggling. 

“Let me go,” Abbie grunts, kicking her legs to wiggle free. Ichabod merely holds her tighter and closer. 

“Nay, I dinna think I shall,” he murmurs, delighting in Abbie’s shudder when he presses a soft kiss to her neck, just behind her ear.

“Not fair,” Katrina says from across the room. “My last chance to beat your arse and it’s taken from me,” she pouts.

“Let’s just pretend you would’ve won,” Abbie sneers good-naturedly.

“Bram, let me go; I still have to teach someone a lesson.” Katrina attempts to wrest herself from Bram’s arms but he pokes her in the side and laughs when she practically bends in half with a yelp.

“Ye’re not teachin’ anyone anythin’,” he says as he reaches for a sausage roll. “I’m starvin’.” 

He doesn’t bother to bite it in half, but stuffs the whole meat-filled pastry into his mouth all at once. Abbie and Ichabod look horrified. 

“What? Ye should eat, love,” Bram tells Katrina. “You, too, Ichabod. I dinna want any complaints on the road.”

Ichabod stills and Abbie glances down at him in confusion. 

“What is he talking about, Ichabod?” 

He swallows and spares a glare at Bram before turning up to Abbie. 

“I’m being...summoned. By my father,” he says.

Abbie watches his throat bob in nervousness. 

“Is this something to worry about?” she asks.

“No, nae at all. I’ll only be gone for a few days, that’s all.”

“Can I come with you?” she asks. “I would like to see someone else other than the O’Learys, as nice people as they are.”

“You… canna,” Ichabod says quietly.

“Oh?” Abbie pulls his hands from her waist. “Why is that?” she asks.

“They could take you back, Abbie,” Ichabod says bluntly. “All that has transpired would be for naught.” 

Abbie nods and returns to her chair. 

“Remind me whose fault that is,” she murmurs as she fills her plate. “And you could have told me about this before, instead of the last minute.”

“I had no wish to detract from your time with Katrina,” Ichabod says. “I have avoided my father long enough.”

Katrina glances at Bram from behind her goblet, wincing at the abrupt change in mood. 

“Come, Abbie; don’t be angry at Ichabod. He was only trying to preserve your happiness where he could.”

“Aye, because Ichabod only ever thinks of others,” Abbie mutters as she attacks the steak and ale pie upon her plate. “His only thought was of me when he had Bram take me from the market. He thinks of only me keeping me here, like a… dolled-up prisoner with naught but servants and dusty books to keep me company while my clan may very well have been left to languish, but yes, let’s congratulate Ichabod for thinking of others.” 

She stares down at the ruined plate with distaste. 

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Abbie murmurs, but grabs her goblet. “Forgive me, I will retire early.” 

She stalks from the room without another look back, leaving Ichabod immobile and stricken. 

~*~

Bad dreams, too much ale, and not enough food has Abbie lingering in bed for longer than she’d intended, and she wakes to find no Katrina. She allows herself a moment to be irrationally angry. Of course Katrina spent her last night in Scotland with Bram.

Of course she did.

Doesn’t make it easier to pull herself from bed and dress in something decent. Emotions knock around in her heart and leave Abbie feeling vaguely ill, but she leaves her room and hopes to avoid Ichabod. Just the thought of him makes her angry and the nausea recedes just enough that the pounding of her head is no longer life-threatening.

Abbie stops by the kitchens, empty save for Siobhan in the corner, peeling potatoes. She gives Abbie a warm fruit pie and instead of eating inside Abbie takes her late breakfast and Famhair, who was hiding beneath Siobhan’s skirts, and starts down the path that leads to the split toward either the stables or the lake.

“Lady Abigail,” Maighread says with a quick curtsy. “How are ye feelin’?”

Abbie swallows and hides her eyes from the bright, traitorous sunshine. 

“Fine, thank you, Maighread. Where is Lord Ichabod?”

“Himself an’ Angus are off to investigate a field a league over. They should be back shortly. Did ye require anything?” 

“Have our guests departed already?” Abbie asks, her heart beating faster. If she missed the chance to tell Katrina goodbye she’d steer the ship herself to slap the girl silly. 

“Nay. Lady Katrina and Bram are in the stables, gettin’ the carriage prepared.”

“Thank you,” Abbie steps around the woman and rushes down the path to the stables. 

The doors have been thrown open and she can see Bram’s brown head bent next to two recent additions; identical black horses named Cain and Abel meant to pull carts or carriages. 

“You’re nae gone yet,” she says as she skids to a stop on some hay.

Bram glances up at her, a brush in hand. 

“Nay,” he says, and returns to his work.

Abbie watches him, unnerved. 

“Did I ruin last night that badly?” she asks. 

Bram shrugs a shoulder. 

“Nae more than it already was,” he says.

“But I shouldna have said what I did,” Abbie says heavily.

“Nothin’ ye said that didna need ta be said.” 

Bram sighs and scratches at the nape of his neck. 

“I’ve been meanin’ ta apologize ta you. Shoulda done ages ago.”

“You were just following orders,” Abbie says, but he shakes his head.

“Ichabod has told me ta do somethin’ before that I knew was daft. Difference bein’ I _told_ him it was daft and didna do it. This time?” 

Bram shakes his head. 

“I think about it a lot and I dinna know why I thought it was the right thing ta do.”

Abbie swallows and looks away. 

“I dinna blame you. At least I stopped blaming you,” she corrects.

“When’d ye do that?”

Abbie’s smile is small and brief. 

“After I gave you that shiner,” she says, and Bram throws his head back and laughs. 

“Katrina said ye have forgiveness in yer heart. When I told her what happened, she promised ta give me a matchin’ one.”

“I didna see you with a pair.” 

“Kisses,” he says seriously. “And speakin’ of forgiveness, maybe ye could spare just a little for Ichabod?” 

Bram shakes his head and pats the horse before him on the neck. 

“Ye literally stupefy him.”

“I’m nae in the mood to forgive Ichabod Crane right now,” Abbie admits. 

“Fair enough,” he says. “But ye should know somethin’; Ichabod’s gonna be in serious trouble with his da.”

Abbie frowns. 

“He said it wisna particularly important,” she says.

“Aye, I know what he said, but it isnae true. This whole fiasco hinges on him bein’ able ta marry and beget a child before our clans come ta war. That’s why you canna come – if ye’re found unmarried and without child there will be hell ta pay. There will be hell ta pay now.”

“Because we’re nae married,” Abbie says hollowly.

“Because ye’re nae married,” he agrees. “Ichabod is a dunderheid and disna give half a mind before doin’ some things, but he does truly believe ye hung the moon and wants ye ta feel the same about him. That’s why he hasna had me go find a friar. That’s why he didna return with one before.”

Abbie cocks her head. 

“He told me he couldna find one on short notice,” she says.

Bram scoffs. 

“No. Ichabod has enough coin ta convince most people ta do what he wants. A friar? That isnae particularly difficult to manage, even halfheartedly. There’s one in the next village.” 

“Should I be concerned?” she asks. 

“I would be lyin’ if I said nay,” he says. 

“What will happen?” Abbie asks, her heart beating wildly for a completely new reason.

“Depends on Chief Orrin’s mood,” Bram says.

“I’ve heard he can be ruthless, even against his own clan,” she whispers. “Would he be so against his son?”

Bram’s expression is little more than a grimace. 

“Chief Orrin is like a father ta me, and a brother ta me own da. He has extremely high expectations of Ichabod ever since Callum passed. Ichabod wisna expected to lead until it was unavoidable.”

Abbie reels under this new information. 

“Lord Orrin didna give his blessing for this?”

Bram scoffs. 

“Hell no,” he says. “Too much risk.”

“He never… Ichabod made it seem like he had the full backing of Orrin. Why would he nae say something?”

Bram looks at her strangely. 

“How could he, without lettin’ ye know how dire everything is? He really does care what ye think of him.” 

Abbie doesn’t know what to think and almost crumples the fruit pastry in her hand. She looks down at it and sighs. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Always,” Bram says promptly, and grins when she hands him almost a whole fruit pie. Almost immediately afterward Abbie’s in his arms, giving him a hug that belies her slight stature. 

“I’m sorry we’re losing Katrina,” she murmurs, willing him some of her comfort.

Bram hesitates before returning the embrace. 

“Thank you,” he says, releasing Abbie and clearing his throat. “You may want ta spend what time you can with Katrina; I still have her for a few hours yet.”

“Where is she?”

“At the river. I think she was hoping to see you.”

Abbie nods and finds Katrina exactly where directed, on the shore of the lake braiding her hair while clad in only her shift. 

“This water must have something restorative in it,” Katrina says when she catches a glimpse of Abbie. “I feel like a new woman.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Abbie says as she sits beside Katrina’s dress. “Just saw Bram in the stables.”

“Always working,” she hums, finishing the tie on the end of her braid. “He tell you about Ichabod?”

“So does everyone know how much of an idiot he is save me?” Abbie asks with a mournful laugh. 

“He was a man head over heels, Abbie, with what he thought were no options. Are you going to hold it against him for the rest of your lives? Can’t you see how tiring that would be?”

“I _am_ tired,” Abbie admits. “I’m so tired of fighting him and tired of being angry.”

“And you’re afraid,” Katrina prompts when Abbie throws her a glare. “What are you afraid of?”

“Of everything that could and is going wrong,” Abbie points out. “This is too much. Too much to risk, he should’ve just –”

“Left you to Daniel, right?” Katrina says. “That would’ve been the safest and smartest thing to do. Because we both know that Daniel isn’t a petulant child who will rule the Northmen one day and who thinks that if he marries you he’ll rule the Mills clan, too. Tell me I’m wrong.” 

Abbie looks away.

“I know you don’t think your happiness is very important in the grand scheme of anything, but think of your people. We both know you could do far worse than Ichabod Crane.”

“Put your clothes on,” Abbie grumbles. “You’ve got a whole life to lead on the other side of the world.” 

She helps Katrina into her dress and concentrates on not crying, though they fail and end up wiping each other’s faces. 

“I’m going to miss your wedding.”

“I’m going to miss yours,” Katrina sniffs. “Just promise me one thing,” she says.

“Anything.”

“Don’t get in the way of your own happiness so much. I think you love him, and I want you to let yourself, alright?” Katrina says seriously.

Abbie glances away and pulls her into a long hug. 

“What will I do without you?”

“Lean on Ichabod,” Katrina whispers in her ear. “You’ve got to be each other’s best friends now. It’s the only way it’s going to work.”

“Lady Abigail, Miss Katrina?”

They break apart as Ian breaks through the tall grass, laughing quietly at each other’s reddened faces. 

“Is the carriage ready to depart?” Abbie asks, composing herself quickly.

“Nay, Lord Ichabod asks for your presence. There’s a visitor.”

Bewildered, Abbie glances at Katrina before following Ian back to the castle. They enter the great hall to find Ichabod and Bram speaking with an older man with his hair shaved clean on his crown and dressed in unmistakable dark brown robes.

Ichabod offers his hand and Abbie places hers inside before giving the man a nod of the head.

“Brother Jacob, let me introduce the woman of the house and my soon-to-be wife, Lady Abigail Mills.”

Brother Jacob’s eyes flicker back to Ichabod’s before accepting Abbie’s hand and laying a quick kiss upon her knuckles. 

“Mills; would you by chance be related to Chief Ezra of the Mills?”

“My father,” Abbie says. “Have we met before?”

“Nay, but your clan is well known for various fine materials and for the fact that quite a few are –” Friar Jacob swallows as Abbie’s smile grows more gracious. 

“Dusky of skin,” he finishes. “But extremely fair,” he murmurs while gazing at the tops of her breasts. 

“What brings you to Duhnorum Valley, Brother Jacob?” Abbie asks, raising her eyebrow at Ichabod before releasing his hand. 

“I was utterly and completely lost. If it weren’t for Ichabod and Angus I would have surely perished attempting to find my way to the next village.” Brother Jacob says, and catches a glimpse of Katrina. “And who is this lovely young woman?”

“This is my friend, Katrina Tanner,” Abbie says, and Katrina drops into a quick curtsy when the friar kisses her knuckles as well, getting an eyeful of her magnificent chest. 

“Brother Jacob, I insist that you stay the night; you look a bit road weary and it would give our horse master time to check over your horse and load supplies,” Ichabod says.

“May God bless you,” Brother Jacob says, wiping his brow with a burlap cloth. 

“Ian will see to your needs and I hope you’ll join us for dinner tonight.” 

“I will be there,” Brother Jacob says, and Ian, where he stood in wait, ushers the friar to his rooms in the same wing as Ichabod and Bram’s. 

“Join _us_ for dinner?” Abbie asks.

Ichabod looks slightly uncomfortable. 

“Canna leave the friar without a host,” he says. “We’ll stay one more night, then we’ll leave with Brother Jacob.” 

He nods at Bram once and turns on his heel, leaving Bram, Katrina and Abbie. 

“What just happened?” Abbie asks.

“I think it’s just an excuse ta avoid his father for one more day. It would be rude ta leave when the friar has just arrived.” Bram shrugs. “He canna put it off forever.”

Abbie nods. 

No, they can’t.

But she doesn’t have the courage to suggest what she suspects is their best option until the middle of dinner. 

Brother Jacob, though seemingly caught between Katrina’s charms and Abbie’s own, is a wonderful storyteller and regales them of tales from all around the Scottish isles. They laugh, gasp, and wince at the dynamic stories well until everyone is full. 

“And that would have to be the strangest wedding I’ve ever officiated,” Brother Jacob says before taking a long drink from his goblet. 

“Dunno if anythin’ can beat that, but I guess the bear had to prove himself in the eyes of the lord,” Bram says with faux seriousness. 

Katrina chuckles quietly behind her cup as Abbie regards Ichabod’s profile. He’s been a little quiet during dinner, but nothing that would call attention. He’s been dutifully attentive and responded when needed during the stories, but it is obvious his mind isn’t anywhere about.

“I don’t think I could eat another bite,” Brother Jacob says with a sigh. “My compliments to the lady of the house,” he says with an incline of his head in Abbie’s direction.

“Well, technically I’m nae the lady of the house yet,” she murmurs. “But perhaps you can fix that.”

Ichabod suddenly sits up in his chair, all of his considerable focus brought to bear on Abbie as she looks back at him with a mild expression on her face. 

“What?” he whispers. 

“I just thought perhaps it was a sign that Brother Jacob was found by you and Angus. He was meant to marry us.” Abbie musters up a smile for the friar. “Would that be too much to trouble you for?” 

Ichabod wipes his suddenly dry mouth and rises from the table. 

“Would everyone excuse us,” he asks as Katrina gleefully slaps Bram on the forearm. He holds his hand out for Abbie and grips it a little too firmly while leading her out of the room and down the hall to the empty and mostly dark great room. 

“Abbie,” he says, dropping her hand and immediately beginning to pace. “Abbie…”

“What’s the matter; I thought this was what you wanted,” she says coolly. 

Ichabod stops mid-stride and shakes his head. 

“Nay, this isnae what I wanted. I wanted to be able to court you truly, out in the open. It wisna meant to be,” he says.

“But this is?”

“Yes! No,” he corrects. “What will you have of me? I am sorry, but this is the hand you’ve been dealt.”

“And you so happen to be the dealer?” Abbie asks.

“These opportunities you think you had, what were they?” Ichabod exhales slowly and shakes his head. “You said your father told you that you could marry for love. What if the clan needed something? What if any number of things happen that can overturn a clan’s influence? What else would Chief Ezra have to bargain with?”

“I’m nae a bargaining tool,” Abbie hisses.

“You are just as I am,” Ichabod says. “Chiefs would dangle their daughters at me as if they were merely objects to be sold to the highest bidder, or to the bidder they wanted to align themselves with. There is nae as much choice with being on top than there are those waiting to pull you to the bottom. 

“They’re waiting, Abbie. Waiting for your father to pass so they can come in force and dismantle the Mills Clan and all you stand for. I couldna stand by and let that happen, regardless of what animosity our families have cultivated for entirely too long. I love you too much, even if you dinna love me.”

Abbie crosses her arms, determined not to cry as she turns away from him. 

“And what would be your best option, Abbie? To marry the Reynolds?” He asks, just short of crying. “He would make you happy?”

Abbie closes her eyes. 

“I’ve known him all my life. I could have worked something out with him,” she whispers, and hates the lies she’s telling herself. Nay, she’d known Danny for a couple of weeks at a time every couple of years, when the Mills clan would trek to the North for fish, oil, and furs. She remembers the shy boy she’d been introduced to, and learned to understand the jokes about how they’d be married one day. 

She hadn’t minded it; Danny was a shy and retiring young man with a beautiful smile. But then he turned seventeen and she fifteen and his smile was different. When she visited, he demanded all of her attention and became very petulant when she spoke to any of his clan brothers. 

Her twentieth year, Danny tried to convince her to stay in the north country and marry him that year; Abbie wasn’t prepared to leave her home, and convinced him she needed time to think. Abbie can still remember how hot his grip seemed to be as it encompassed her entire bicep. 

Strip away all the longed-for familiarity and the lies she’s told herself so often they’re her personal truth, and Abbie knows Daniel wouldn’t take no for an answer, and marrying him would be a type of death to which she wasn’t ready to surrender.

“Will you ever nae hate me, Abbie?” Ichabod asks quietly. 

A sob falls from Abbie’s mouth as she shakes her head.

“I dinna hate you,” she stiffly. 

“I think I’ve used you so I dinna have to hate my father,” she admits. 

“Let’s just find another friar later, when you feel I’ve earned your love,” he says, stepping close and reaching for Abbie’s hand. “Because I was honest when I said I wanted to prove myself to you.”

Abbie looks up into his eyes, her heart breaking at the naked sadness in Ichabod’s gaze. 

“You never intended to ask the friar to marry us while he was here, did you,” she says.

Ichabod shakes his head slowly. 

“You werena ready,” he says. 

“Bram told me your father is upset with you about… this entire debacle, is that true?”

Ichabod closes his eyes briefly. 

“Bram needs to do something with his mouth beside talk.”

“Is it true that you’re going to be punished if you return and we’re nae married and pregnant? Dinna lie to me, Ichabod Crane.”

Ichabod looks at her a moment more. 

“Aye, it’s true,” he says. “But the lash of the whip is naught compared to your happiness and wellbeing. I want you by my side, nae pulled behind me in chains.”

Abbie leans forward and presses her forehead against his chest, letting her hand come up and rest over his heart. The feeling of life beneath her palm is comforting, and she releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding when he pulls her closer and rocks her gently. 

“I dinna hate you, Ichabod. I think my problem now lies in the opposite direction.” Abbie lifts her head to cup his cheek gently. “I dinna want you to leave yourself open for any sort of retaliation, parental or otherwise. Marry me now, before you return to your father.”

“Are you sure?” he asks hoarsely. 

“Aye,” she says, staring at her hand on his chest to avoid the scrutiny of his gaze. “I said what I said.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and Abbie laughs in spite of her heavy heart.

“I know where your kisses lead,” she teases. “There will be plenty of time for that. Later.”

~*~

“I dinna understand. How have ye managed ta find someone who will put up with yer shenanigans with more grace than I do?” Bram asks.

Ichabod stares at the floor before Brother Jacob and shakes his head. 

“I have no idea,” he murmurs, trying to keep his hands from practically fluttering. 

He’s standing in the great room after Maighread and Siobhan decorated it with as many flowers they could find. 

Candles are lit, giving the room a soft atmosphere, and Bram, Ichabod, and Brother Jacob stand beneath the largest window in the room, the stained glass using the dying sun to paint a glorious design on the stone floor. 

Ichabod stares at it now, heart pounding so loud he feels it in his scalp, and shakes his head. Is this real? Something he’s dreamed of for so long is about to happen and all he can think about is that his body doesn’t feel real.

The men glance up as Angus sneaks in, taking off his hat and sitting in one of the chairs arranged for the audience of witnesses. 

“They’re on their way down,” he says with a nod, and Ichabod has to employ sheer will not to faint.

The double doors open again and Ichabod’s breath is sucked out of his body. 

Abbie walks toward him, clad in an emerald dress so dark it looks black, with white cloth at the biceps and elbows. In her hands is a single lily-of-the-valley and her hair is down and curling, adorned with a crown of white roses. She’s wearing no jewels, not even the necklace he bought her specifically for their wedding.

It doesn’t matter, because in Ichabod’s eyes she’s shining brighter than any pearl or ruby could possibly hope to do. He swallows, feeling cowardly before this tiny woman as she advances, her lower lip trembling. Ichabod realizes she’s trying not to cry. He can only hope they are tears of job but deep down he knows they’re not, and his mood is doused immediately. 

With eyes only for her, he takes her hand in his and stares down at her beautiful face, his heart breaking when a tear slips down one beautiful brown cheek then another. Ichabod isn’t listening to the friar, his entire being is consumed by Abbie and he gently thumbs away her tears as they fall. It is simultaneously an eternity and entirely too soon when he’s prompted to kiss his bride, his _wife_ , and when Abbie sobs softly against his mouth, he almost drops to his knees and begs her forgiveness.

They’re ushered into the dining room for another short repast but Ichabod consumes no food and says nothing, his eyes unable to leave Abbie’s form. She flits around the room with an almost nervous air, laughing and joking with people and glancing back at him, as if she’s unsure of what she should be doing.

Ichabod knows nothing of married life either, so he is also at a loss until Bram shoves a tankard of ale into his hand and keeps it filled until the friar is slurring his words and wishing them many wonderful children.

Katrina manages to sidle up to him with a smile more wicked than congratulatory. 

“I didn’t think I’d see this day, Ichabod. Welcome to the family.”

Ichabod nods quickly, and smirks at her. 

“Family?”

“Absolutely,” Katrina says seriously. “As Bram is your brother, Abbie is my sister. If you don’t do right by her I’m taking the next ship back and showing you why you’re wrong.”

“And it couldna possibly be Abbie who is in the wrong, right?” Ichabod asks.

“I knew you were smart. Let me have a moment with your bride and excuse yourself in about fifteen minutes. I promise you it’ll be worth the wait.” 

She glares at him knowingly and Ichabod watches from across the room as she bends to speak in Abbie’s ear, pulling the tankard from her hands and herding her out of the room.

The dread in his stomach coalesces into something akin to excitement and the countdown begins with Ichabod wondering if it would be unmanly to need to put his head between his knees. 

~*~

Abbie feels more exposed in her current nightgown than any threadbare shift she still clings to. 

She’s in Ichabod’s room--well, technically _their_ room--and she’s considering her options. The window is too high from the ground but maybe if she goes out head first it won’t matter. 

_No_ , she thinks as she turns from the windows. 

Should she wait for him in the bed? 

Abbie goes to turn down the sheets and finds the bedding smells like him. Immediately she has an image of Ichabod, prone and snoring lightly, nude in this bed and she presses her thighs together. She takes a deep breath and climbs in on the side where the pillow’s scent is faint.

She lies there for what feels like hours but ends up getting up and going to the chair. Abbie arranges the hem of her gown demurely then has no idea what to do with her hands. She tries to pose, facing the door, and immediately feels stupid and self-conscious. 

Why is this so difficult?

Abbie rises from the chair to return to pacing when the door swings open. She turns, expecting Katrina and one of her many suggestions, when Ichabod steps into the sphere of candle light, looking taller than he did just downstairs. She feels slightly dizzy as they just stare at each other, him still wearing his wedding finery and she in a gown more lace than cloth. She watches him glance at the bed and an eyebrow rises. 

“I turned down the bed,” she blurts, immediately shaking her head. 

“Which I’m sure you can see,” she mutters.

“…Aye,” Ichabod says. 

Abbie swallows and nods, moving away as he comes closer. They end up on opposite sides of the room despite her never making the conscious decision to put distance between them. 

“Is the revelry still going on?”

“If by revelry you mean is Bram trying to eat everything that isnae already put away, of course. But as for the normal folk, we put the friar to bed, Aidan and Famhair are still sleeping in the great room on the chairs at last check, and Katrina’s helping Maighread and Siobhan take down the decorations.”

Abbie blinks and nods yet again at the thorough update. 

“Well that’s… good,” she says. “Good, good.”

“Yes, good,” Ichabod echoes. 

“I’m going to get dressed for bed,” he says.

“Is that a warning?” Abbie asks, with enough bite for Ichabod to grin briefly.

“Aye, if you’d like to take it as such,” he replies, quicker than his brain can catch up.

Abbie’s laugh is weak. 

“Would you like me to leave?” she whispers. 

Ichabod frowns and shakes his head. 

“You’re my wife,” he reminds her gently. “If no one else stays, I want you to.”

Abbie nods and exhales slowly. 

“Of course, right.”

“You look tired,” he murmurs, and moves slowly so Abbie can move away if she wants. She stumbles, just a little, at the thought that he may kiss her and his strong arms gather her close with concern. 

“Are you alright?”

“You said I’m your wife,” Abbie repeats, face full of wonder as she looks up at him. 

“Aye,” Ichabod says, unable to do anything but smile tenderly at her. “That you are.” 

Her gaze roves over his face, taking in the kindness in his eyes and the humor on his mouth and somewhere inside of her Abbie begins to hope this is more than just her best option. 

“It’s been a long day,” she says, clutching the front of his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Dinna be. You lie down and I’ll dress for bed?”

Abbie presses her forehead against his chest and summons her courage. 

“Do you sleep nude?”

Ichabod chuckles. 

“I do, normally. I will dress if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, no.” Abbie shakes her head and pulls away. “I need to get used to your… habits anyway. I dinna want you to be uncomfortable in your own bed.”

“That goes the same for you, _mo gràdh_ ,” Ichabod says, reaching down to lift Abbie’s chin with his finger. “You find something nae to your liking and I expect to hear about it.”

Abbie’s smile turns sly. 

“You know the saying be careful what you wish for,” she teases, and it’s only then that he lets her go to climb into the ridiculously high bed. 

She arranges the bedding to her comfort and watches until Ichabod blows out every candle save one. She watches his silhouette disrobe, her breathing picking up as lean muscle shifts beneath bared skin and Abbie finds herself more excited than scared. 

She’s clutching the duvet tightly when he finally stalks to the bed without a stitch of clothing. Abbie’s holding her breath and her eyes flutter shut as he slides between the bed clothes beside her; she can feel his heat through her nightgown and Abbie wants to be as naked as he is. 

Will he be able to see the buttons in the darkness? 

Will it appear brazen that she’s not wearing anything beneath her gown? Katrina swore it would excite and inflame him. That’s what she wants right?

“Abbie, breathe,” Ichabod murmurs, and she releases the breath, unaware of when she began holding her breath. 

He pulls her closer, tucking her into his side, and runs his hand down the side of her face gently. Her heart ceases to pound as hard and Abbie stops feeling like she’s drowning. 

“You’re so very beautiful,” he says, dipping his head to run his nose against her other cheek. 

“And I’m yours,” she manages to say.

Ichabod stops and pulls away, and from her vantage point Abbie can’t really discern his expression. 

“I belong to you just as much as you belong to me, I swear it, _mo gràdh_ ,” he says. “I know you didna wake this morning intending to marry me. I dinna want you to regret this.”

“I want to tell you I dinna,” Abbie sighs. “I dinna know how I feel.” 

“Then I will wait until you do,” he says, and kisses her on the cheek softly. 

“Goodnight, _mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs, and turns on his side away from her. 

It hurt to turn his back but if he continued to gaze upon Abbie, knowing she wore nothing beneath her gown, he would not be able to control himself for long. Ichabod attempts to concentrate on everything but the throbbing of his cock, heavy between his legs, as he endeavors to be a better man to his wife. She deserves more than anything he’s able to give her and if she needs time and space to welcome him into her body then so be it, he resolves. 

But God knows it’s difficult, because his senses are assaulted by the soft scent unique to Abbie. 

He closes his eyes tightly and thinks of old man Murphy, dancing a jig in his too-short kilt, giving everyone an eyeful of the most wrinkled balls in existence. It almost works until Ichabod rises from his self-imposed nightmare to hear Abbie’s soft crying. 

“ _Mo gràdh_?” Ichabod turns over and reaches for Abbie’s shoulder, pulling her closer and checking for injury. The moonlight glints off of the tear track that falls back into her gloriously poofed hair. He kisses the trail and holds her tightly. 

“Why are you crying?”

“Because I am a mess. I couldna hold it together during the ceremony and I dinna know what I’m doing right now, but I’m doing it so badly you dinna have any interest in marital relations with me because I’ve been so difficult,” she mutters.

“Difficult? Abbie, it is I who has been difficult. I only tried to do what was best but I didna bother to consult you in the whole matter. And I have made certain things more fraught with danger than they may have been if we’d at least thought of another way of doing things. And even after all of that you were willing to do what I needed so I’m able to see my father and nae have to lie. Love, it is I who disna deserve you.

“And I dinna want you to feel obligated to lay with me, married or nae. Do you nae understand by now how you have every part of me?” Ichabod nudges himself against Abbie’s thigh and groans at her soft gasp. 

“ _Every_ part of me,” he whispers, leaning down to pepper slow, lingering kisses on her cheek. 

Abbie sighs and tilts her head to give him more access. 

“If you were willing I would have my hands on your glorious legs beneath your gown,” he rumbles against her neck, dragging the hem up her legs bunched in his fists. Abbie attempts to control the whimper as Ichabod’s large, hot hands spread on her thigh. 

“You’re nae wearing smallclothes?”

Abbie sighs. 

“Katrina said it would be exciting,” she mutters. 

Ichabod nods and groans loudly. 

“Very,” he pants. “Do you want to take it off?”

Abbie bites her lip as she clutches Ichabod’s head to her. 

“Do you want me to?”

“Abbie, dinna ask me that,” he mutters. “Because the answer will forever be yes.”

Abbie laughs and pushes him off to pull the gown up and over, throwing it over the side of the bed. She resists the urge to cover herself, forcing her hands down by her sides while Ichabod devours her revealed flesh with his eyes. She yelps and pulls the covers over her head, laughing. 

“You’re staring at me like you want to eat me,” she says, and yelps again when Ichabod dives under the covers as well.

“I do, _mo gràdh_ ,” he groans, pulling her by the legs closer to him. Ichabod lays a kiss on her lower stomach, grinning against Abbie’s abdomen when it jumps. “Can I…”

“Do what you will, Ichabod Crane,” Abbie says shakily. 

“Aye, Grace...” 

He mouths a wet kiss against the inside of her knee. 

“Abigail...” 

He nips gently at the silk of her inner thigh. 

“Crane,” he finishes darkly, and lowers his face between her legs. He throws off the covers, wanting everything in the open as he rubs his enflamed face against her moist curls. 

“Already you’re so wet,” he praises her, gathering a bit of moisture with his fingers and sticking it in his mouth. “Better than even I remember.”

Abbie leans up on her elbows, breathing shakily as she stares down at Ichabod between her thighs. 

“Then shut up and show me,” she pants, and collapses back to the bed with a groan as Ichabod licks deep inside of her, using his tongue to circle her clit before sucking on it gently. 

“Ichabod,” she cries out, already close to the edge so soon.

He feasts faster, gorging himself on her sweet nectar until he feels her inner muscles contract and his mouth and face is flooded with her juices. Ichabod flips Abbie over, mindless in his desperation, and palms her ass in his hands and squeezes. 

“I will write odes to your backside,” he promises in a haze of awed love. “I will worship at the altar of your body like the goddess you are.” 

He groans and bites the apple of her rear, making Abbie squeal and thrash with a breathless laugh.

“What are you doing, why have you stopped?” Abbie tries to twist to see as she feels his weight move away.

“I want to see you,” Ichabod says, and lights some candles to bring closer to the bed. 

Abbie turns over and the smile on her face drops off as she stares at his cock. He freezes immediately. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, glancing down at his own member.

Abbie swallows loudly. 

“You canna be real,” she whispers. 

Ichabod tries not to feel a rush of ego but his dick responds to a flash of pride with a heavy bob between his legs. 

“Nae really,” he tries for when she begins to shake her head. “You just have to become familiar with it. Like your root vegetable.”

Abbie throws her hands over her face and groans. 

“It was a lie,” she says mournfully. 

Ichabod climbs onto the bed and kisses her face, then her neck and shoulder. 

“What’s a lie?”

“I didna lose my maidenhead to a root vegetable,” she mutters, and groans when the tips of his fingers find her breast and teases a pebbled peak. 

“And that... that monster betwixt your legs is by no means a root vegetable,” she says. 

“Then we will go slow,” Ichabod promises. “I will do everything in my power nae to hurt you.” 

He lifts her chin and kisses her softly, sweetly. 

“Do you trust me?”

Abbie looks into his eyes and wants to give him this, give the last bit of herself to him, but she can’t, and looks away; on the verge of tears yet again.

“Nay, _mo gràdh_ , it’s okay,” he croons as he moves closer to pull her into his arms. Abbie straddles his lap as she clutches him to her chest. 

“That will come in time,” he says. “But for now, can you trust me enough to make you feel good?”

Abbie chuckles against his shoulder. 

“Better than what I just felt?” she asks.

Ichabod’s laugh pulls at things low in her body. 

“Aye,” he purrs. 

She realizes how she’s sitting on him and attempts to move when he stops her. 

“Nay, I dinna think I’m ready to let you go.” Abbie swallows and glances down at the figurative weapon between them. “Dinna worry, we’ll work our way up to that.”

Ichabod realizes Abbie’s trembling and rubs his hands up and down her back gently. 

“What do you want to do?” he asks, and watches as her eyes drop to his mouth. “Would you like to kiss me, Abbie?”

She whimpers breathlessly and leans her face against his; her thighs and sex still tingle. Shyly, Abbie kisses Ichabod, licking into his mouth to chase that taste on her tongue. She moans, her hips moving unconsciously as he pulls her even closer and slides his tongue against hers. 

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been kissing but she needs more and skin to skin isn’t close enough. Abbie breaks the kiss with a yelp and a low groan; one of Ichabod’s amazing fingers is rubbing gently but insistently against her entrance, drawing the moisture against the pads of his fingers. Her hips start to rock counter his slight movements and Abbie’s back bows as she clutches Ichabod’s shoulders with her nails. His finger slips in, just to the first knuckle, and it feels so good her head drops to his shoulder with a shudder. 

Ichabod struggles to keep his movement shallow but her body feels scalding as it clutches at the single digit he has sunk inside of her. Abbie feels swollen and unbearably wet and he’s trying not to bite the join of her neck possessively. 

Finally, she is his.

The thought makes him thrust his finger in hard and Ichabod shudders at the sweet sound falling from Abbie’s mouth as she throws her head back, working her hips in earnest. He adds another finger, mindful of how tight she feels, using the tips of his fingers to rub deep inside of her. When Ichabod finds Abbie’s spot he grins darkly as her hips stutter and she looks positively shocked as his hand is awash in her juices. 

“What… are your fingers made of? What are you… doing to me,” she stammers, whining into his mouth. 

He can’t even kiss her for watching her body spiral up, riding his hand with more and more intensity. Slowly Abbie sinks down Ichabod’s fingers to the second knuckle and she screams hoarsely when he bends to take a nipple into his mouth. Her body doesn’t know which way to move and she’s frustrated and confused until Ichabod bears them down onto the bed and begins slowly driving, moving his fingers as deep as he dares before dragging them against her walls as he withdraws. 

Abbie’s thighs fall open to admit him and Ichabod tries to ignore the aroma but it calls to him and he falls on her drenched flower like an addiction, lapping at her bud in time with the thrusts of his fingers. He carefully adds a third, rubbing himself against the bed as Abbie cries out again, bearing down on his digits and flooding his mouth as she comes.

Ichabod pulls Abbie tighter to his mouth, holding his fingers inside of her as she pulses around his fingers. He lets her come down just a little before delving in again with shallow thrusts. The effect is immediate as Abbie whines and clutches his hair in her hands. 

“Ichabod,” she gasps. “Please.”

“Do you know what you ask, _mo gràdh_ ,” he rasps against her slick inner thigh. All he can smell is her and he wants to roll around and have her essence in his beard so he can carry her bouquet around for all time.

“Nay,” she cries out truthfully, tightening around his fingers again. “But I want it.”

Ichabod closes his eyes and kisses every inch of skin as he tries to keep his cock from going off right then and there. 

“Aye,” he whispers, and presses kisses on his way up Abbie’s body, trying to keep the tremble out of his limbs as he settles himself between her heavenly thighs. He looks down at her and his heart stutters just a little at the look in her eye. If he were a hopeful man it would look a little like what could be love.

A lot like tenderness.

Acceptance.

Overcome, he kisses her gently with his hand at her jaw, feeling the muscles move beneath her skin as they breathe into each other’s mouths. He trails his fingers, still sticky with her desire, down the column of her neck and palms the weight of her breast, hissing at the dig of her nipple against his palm. 

She shifts beneath him and the heat of her core is calling him home. Ichabod swallows and positions himself, and with a deep breath he sinks in just a little. 

“Oh my god,” Abbie chokes; she rears up and scrabbles at his back when he doesn’t withdraw. 

Ichabod’s squeezing his eyes closed, his face hidden between the fall of Abbie’s hair and her neck as he forces his hips not to move. Her thighs tremble against his hips and he widens his legs and shoves in a little more. He doesn’t know what he’s saying but he’s dimly aware of words leaving his mouth, muffled against Abbie’s skin. 

She’s scraping his back, gasping and crying out. 

“You’re … are you… are you in?”

Ichabod looks down and feels as if his soul is going to leave his body. 

“Halfway,” he says with a groan. He wants to shove himself into her entirely, one stroke. He wants to pull out and shove in so hard that his toes curl. Instead Ichabod swallows shakily and pulls out just a little and slowly slides back in a little more.

_Is this what insanity feels like?_ Ichabod wonders as Abbie’s legs are wrapped around his waist and she’s almost shaking and he’s still not buried inside of her tiny body. Maybe she’s too small, maybe – Abbie adjusts her hips and he sinks down another two inches, wrenching a long, bliss-filled groan from his throat. 

He has to still at this point because the need to rut is screaming in his brain and he cannot hurt her, he refuses. 

“ _Mo gràdh_ , are you well?” he chokes out.

Abbie inadvertently flexes around what feels like steel inside of her and whimpers as the sensation. 

“You’re going to split me in two,” she says with a breathless laugh. 

They’re both sweaty and trembling, hair sticking to their shoulders and necks. Ichabod stares down fondly at Abbie and kisses her, thankful she’s been willing to try this far. 

“Only a little more,” he promises. “I will make you feel good.”

Abbie laughs again. 

“You’ve already made me feel better than I’ve ever been able to do with my own hand.” She wiggles her small digits and cups his cheek. “Or root vegetable.” 

Abbie yelps and laughs when he turns to bite at her fingertips. 

“You look like you’re in pain,” she coos.

Ichabod knows his face is probably as red as anything; he can’t help but wince and drop his face against her neck again. 

“You have no idea how amazing you feel inside. How much I want to just –” He flexes his hips shallowly and his hands around Abbie’s waist tighten. 

“I’m trying,” he groans.

Abbie swallows. 

“Then stop trying,” she murmurs, and hooks her heels behind Ichabod’s ass and prods him forward. Ichabod chokes and thrusts in the last few inches, buried completely inside Abbie. 

He almost loses his composure, swelling unrepentantly larger once inside. If Ichabod were to die at that moment, he would go gladly. He inhales harshly, feeling lightheaded and whimpering, only dimly registering the prickles of pain on his back as her fingernails dig into his skin. 

Abbie feels dazed and a little in pain as she tries to adjust to the girth impaling her, eyes closed tightly. She doesn’t realize she’s not breathing until Ichabod kisses her eyelids, prodding her to breathe. Abbie takes a deep breath and releases it, tightening around him.

Ichabod swears and thrusts shallowly, still attempting to be as gentle as he can. It feels like molten fire is being poured down his spine and he moves again, pumping his hips and grinding against Abbie.

Her thighs begin to tremble as his length rubs against a spot inside of her, insistent and unrelenting as he tries not to withdraw. All Abbie can hear is her own breathing and Ichabod’s shaky groans as she tries not to move, but it’s building in her groin again and she’ll scream if she doesn’t move.

“Ichabod,” she wails, moving her hips and tightening around him with an almost mindless grunt.

It feels hot and heavy inside of her and just this side of good, if only he’d just _move_. 

Ichabod tries to keep his thrusts shallow and slow, giving Abbie a chance to adjust to the feeling. She’s so responsive, raking her fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair, scratching at his scalp. Ichabod’s thrusts are turning longer and longer and harder and harder. 

“Forgive me, _mo gràdh_ ,” he pants, and begins stroking in and out in earnest.

Abbie’s eyes flutter shut at the sound produced when Ichabod thrusts into her, the loud and wet sounds made as he fills her over and over again. She can tell she’ll be sore after but her hips are rising to meet his and warmth is cascading down her spine even as her belly tightens.

Ichabod is whispering prayers against her skin, his hands like bands against her hips where he’s clutching her so tightly. She cries out when he pulls out slowly, leaving her bereft until he slams his hips forward and fills her again. Abbie chokes on the pleasure, needing it desperately.

“Faster, please,” she begs, and Ichabod growls, lifting them both to his knees with her still on his cock. 

Gravity makes him fill her even more in this position, and Abbie desperately holds on as he lifts her up just a little to have her slam down. She feels the down stroke through her fingertips and throws her head back, shuddering at the pleasure racing through her body. Abbie can only let him lift her off his cock and slam back down, Ichabod biting the skin of her collarbone with his hands filled with her glorious ass. 

She comes again, shuddering and surprised as she bears down with a groan, unable to keep thrusting against Ichabod. He roars against her neck as she tightens around him yet again and they tumble back onto the bed. 

“Forgive,” he says, wretched. “I need – I need…” 

Abbie places kisses on his forehead and cheek. 

“What do you need. Whatever – oh!” 

Ichabod rises onto his hands above her and thrusts in hard, chasing his own end. She’s relaxed so it’s easier to move in and out and it’s almost painfully frictionless, the sound of squelching and harsh breathing dominating the room.

Ichabod grunts each time he buries himself to the hilt inside Abbie, feeling robbed of all intellect and reduced to mere animal roaring as he ruts in and out of her small body. His hips are a blur because he needs to – 

Abbie clenches around him and he growls, coming hard. He thrusts through his climax, spilling himself inside of her with long, hot spurts. Ichabod can’t stop until there’s nothing left and he collapses boneless on top of Abbie.

When he comes back to his right mind Abbie has her cheek pressed against his, her small hand carding through his hair. 

“ _Mo gràdh_ , I am so sorry for my brutish behavior. I didna mean to hurt you,” he rasps. With a fine tremble in his limbs he lifts himself off of her tiny form. 

Abbie gasps as he withdraws from her body and she feels empty and inexplicably troubled as muscles twinge and make themselves known as she closes her legs. 

“I think I will walk funny for a day, but other than that –” Ichabod interrupts her with a kiss. 

“What was that for,” she asks, smiling as they part.

“Because you’re my beautiful and lovely wife. Because you’re here in my bed and my arms, and because I wanted to,” Ichabod murmurs, and places another chaste kiss on her lips. He pulls away, dismayed he’s already thinking about another round.

Abbie’s eyes widen and she reaches down to clutch him and exhales shakily. 

“My god, that was inside of me?” she squeaks.

Ichabod bucks in her grasp and groans against her shoulder. 

“Aye,” he gasps. “And if you dinna stop it’s going to develop a mind of its own very quickly.” 

Abbie can’t resist giving his cock a quick tug before letting go. 

“My husband, the spirit is willing but the flesh is still seeing stars,” she murmurs shyly.

“Please rest, love,” Ichabod says seriously. “I willna rush you.” 

He tucks her into his side, smoothing her hair from where it sticks to her neck and cheek and kissing the revealed skin. The adrenaline begins to fade and Abbie feels utterly exhausted and the last thing she remembers is a kiss upon her lips before she fades into slumber. 


	8. Bride Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mills Clan enter the fray and Ichabod finds opposition may be in the midst of his own clan.

Ichabod sees Carrann Dail, his family home, through new eyes but inhales its scent through the same nose. 

He needs to focus; Ichabod will need the right words to placate his father, who by now has to be seething in anger. 

One glance at the men stationed at the end of the corridor and they pull open the large double doors that lead to the Chief’s cabinet. Ichabod is not surprised to find his father cloistered with a young servant named Imogen and his council, three men who have haunted the edges of his life for as long as Ichabod has been aware..

His father’s most trusted advisors are Ainsley Stewart, a savvy man with inky black hair and an almost impressive paunch, Ranulf Kerr, thin as Ichabod with permanent disdain etched into his face, and Diarmad Dunnet, notorious for appearing perpetually bored and disinterested, though his furtive green eyes will give him away if you look closely enough.

“Father,” Ichabod says, sinking to one knee before the throne. 

His father nods his head and Ichabod rises and acknowledges the other three men with a nod of his own. 

“Gentlemen.”

Lord Orrin Crane of Carrann Dail blinks slowly as the young woman replaces the bowl of grapes sitting in his lap. 

“My son; I’m glad we could pull you away from your pressing business,” he says lowly, and Ichabod tries not to swallow audibly. 

“Leave us,” Lord Orrin commands. 

Lord Kerr sputters his indignation.“Lord Orrin, do ye nae think this involves the entire clan?” he asks.

“I recall the day Ichabod was conceived; I dinna remember you being there,” Orrin says pointedly. 

Kerr grits his teeth before inclining his head. 

“Aye, Lord Orrin,” he murmurs, and gathers his rolls of parchment. “Welcome home, young Ichabod,” he says as he passes. 

Dewar and Dunnet mutter the same, and quickly the room is emptied save Ichabod and his father.

“It warms my heart to see you healthy an’ whole,” Orrin says, and Ichabod glances at Imogen.

“You received word that I was injured?” he asks.

“You had to be; I required your presence and you failed to appear.” 

Orrin chews another grape and stares down at his son with an almost disinterested expression. 

Ichabod drops to his knee again, thinking how this can be salvaged, but he smells the blood on the water, and the blood is his own. 

“Father, I could not spare the ti-”

Orrin raises his hand and Imogen flinches, overreacting almost comically in her anticipation of a blow that doesn’t come. 

“Consider well what you say.” Orrin gestures for Imogen to leave.

“My plan had not yet borne fruit,” Ichabod says. Disquiet bubbles in his stomach as he keeps his body perfectly still - prostrate before his father, hoping to avoid more of this strangely still shadow of Orrin’s ire. 

“Which fruit; the minin’ rights you were to secure or spiritin’ off the Mills bitch?” 

Ichabod’s head snaps up. 

“Dinna speak of my wife as such,” he says lowly. 

Orrin chuckles as Ichabod returns to his feet. 

“Spare me the dramatic indignation.” Orrin sneers. “So you bed her an’ now you find yourself protective. Has she appealed to your manhood? Givin’ you ideas above your station?”

Ichabod rises and takes a step forward. 

“You will keep my wife’s name from your mouth,” he says.

Orrin laughs in earnest, loud and full as he steps down from the throne and looks at his son with disdain. 

“You’re a fool if you think she loves you,” he says. “You’re a means to an end if I’m to understand the situation.”

Ichabod swallows and shakes his head. 

“She will come to love me,” Ichabod responds. “Until then we have a working alliance.”

“Och, aye, I’m sure you do,” Orrin says sarcastically as he stalks around Ichabod to a table with a spread of finger foods and an assortment of alcohols. “Why wouldna she play you like a harp to get what she wants? You’ve brought the Mills horde to our door an’ you are still too blind to see.”

Ichabod takes a deep breath and comes to stand beside Orrin. 

“Father – ” His face jerks to the side under the force of the unexpected blow. 

“It’s been years-- _years_ \--wishin’ it was you who fell to fever all those years ago,” Orrin hisses. 

Ichabod swallows as he straightens his shirt, still reeling under the unexpected blow. Orrin hadn’t hit him since Ichabod surpassed him in height. 

“We dinna always get what we want, do we, father?” he sneers. 

“An’ you think you’re so smart,” Orrin goes on. “Even now you think you’ve won. You’ve won nothin’ but a life of strife because this clan willna accept a Mills as your wife.”

“They will if you tell them,” Ichabod says. “Is that nae so, father? The clan does and says and thinks whatever you tell them.”

“I could kill you where you stand,” Orrin says quietly, filling a tankard with mead. “But I canna produce another heir before the enemies of Clan Crane come bangin’ on our gates.”

“By grace of God I live,” Ichabod says dryly.

“By the grace of _me_ ,” Orrin corrects, and downs his mead before refilling his cup. “Even in our clan we’ve got those who wish our family harm. Who want to wrest control back after seven generations of peace an’ prosperity. There are things attemptin’ to come to a head you know nothin’ of an’ you pull this obscenely juvenile stunt _now_ of all years.”. 

Ichabod swallows, a chill at his back. 

“I asked you to speak to Mills before I put my plan into place. You refused to even entertain the matter.”

“Because this is not the year for Clan Crane to appear weak,” Orrin thunders. “Our peace with the Mills is tenuous at best. He wouldna grant you his daughter’s hand in marriage, an’ the mere askin’ would be ground for offense.”

“Not if we approached them with a bit of humility,” Ichabod says. “I know we could have come to an amicable agreement.”

“An’ bein’ in a position of power they would ask for whatever they wanted an’ when we had to refuse, it would cost us our standin’ with the other clans.”

“Why would we refuse?” Ichabod asks.

“A lean year on top of another lean year. We’re already in debt to the MacDonalds but owed by the MacLachlans. We can’t afford to have a misstep before anyone, least of all our own council.”

“Father, this is all the more reason to create an alliance with the Mills. She is my wife now and we will till and access to their milling process. Our recovery will be swift.” 

“The day I rely on Ezra Mills an’ his ill-gotten gains is when I will be pushed into the sea and set on fire,” Orrin says coldly. 

“Ach, this again,” Ichabod mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Father, they’re just as Scottish as we are – their forebears came with the Romans long ago. How long do they have to stay here before they’re Scottish?”

“Not enough time in the universe,I say,” Orrin says with a raise of his glass. “An’ if you have any sense in that brain of yours you’ll take a perfectly respectable lady for your wife. Lord knows there are enough that throw themselves at you.”

“I didna want any of them,” Ichabod says. “They were simpering social climbers who wanted what I could give them instead of my soul.”

“A woman has no use for your soul, Ichabod. What you want is what’s between her legs an’ whether or nae she can give you babies. Be pragmatic an’ realize your position in the equation is to provide material possessions. Women are predisposed to likin’ nice things about. Canna blame them. But I blame Aislinn for your sentimentality,” he says. “I could not help but indulge her every whim when it came to her remainin’ child. Now look where that has brought us.”

“Where is Mother?” Ichabod asks. 

“She willna be able to save you from these consequences. We’ve been contacted by the Mills Clan. They’re sendin’ an envoy.” 

Ichabod blinks; his throat suddenly dry. 

“What did you say?”

“What _could_ I say? ‘My half-wit of a son has kidnapped your daughter, an’ I’m so ineffectual a leader I had no idea it was happenin’ until after the fact. Please, come wage war while I’m weakened monetarily and lack manpower. I willna be able to buy my allies as I have done in the past and will make an easy conquest.’” Orrin sighs. 

Ichabod’s heart is beating so fast he feels slightly faint. 

“When do they arrive?”

“Day after tomorrow. You deigned to arrive just in time to get ahead of them. Imagine if you had continued to languish in the arms of your harlot; I do believe they would have slaughtered the entire population of Carrann Dail. I must know. Is her cunt worth it?”

Ichabod doesn’t realize he’s hit his father until he draws his hand back, his knuckles bloody. 

Orrin touches his jaw gingerly, spitting blood at Ichabod’s feet. 

“If you werena my only son I would kill you where you stand.”

“That threat’s getting old, Father,” Ichabod says. “At this point why do you nae just try your hand?” 

Orrin grins, wincing at the pull to his lip. 

“You think you can lead better than me? These men will not follow you.”

“And whose fault is that, father? You have made sure no one would want me before your time has come. Now you figure they’re going to throw support behind cousin Joseph when I could have told you that years ago.”

“A year, tops, and you’ll find Joseph with his throat cut an’ his hand clutchin’ a pair of dice.” Orrin stares at his son warily. “They’d have to be insane to think he’d be worthy.”

“You havena figured it out yet, have you,” Ichabod says with a chuckle. “They dinna want a leader to actually lead. They want a leader to use as a scapegoat when things go wrong. When I lead - and I _will_ lead, Father. I have been groomed for naught else since Callum died – so know this, I will rule and I will do so as more than a figurehead. As more than a scapegoat.”

Orrin glares at his son and takes a swallow of his drink, wincing as the liquid makes contact with the cut on his lip. 

“You leave an’ suddenly return with steel?” His chuckle is dry and withers away in the silence of the great room. “This Mills girl is to thank for this?”

Ichabod’s hands flex at his sides and he takes a deep breath. 

“I will handle the envoy,” he says.

“Why not bring your bride here? She would have to be more comfortable than where she is, sequestered from any an’ every one.” Orrin grins at his son’s discomfort. “Ah. Gone all this time to be married yet she still bleeds.”

Ichabod doesn’t tell his father that they’ve only been man and wife a day and a half, most of which has been spent apart. 

“These things take time. We willna know until the next moon,” he murmurs.

“You better hope your mouth is better than your decision making because you’ll need to convince the Mills you dinna have their daughter an’ that you havena been spendin’ the better part of nearly two months tryin’ to put a bairn in her.”

“I will think of something,” Ichabod says. “But know this, father. And I say it with the utmost respect; say something else untoward about Abigail and I will nae be held responsible for what I do.” 

He raises an eyebrow at his father and departs the room before they come to blows again. 

Muscle memory carries Ichabod out of the cabinet and into the family apartments, generally closed off and secured by two loyal clansmen. He nods once at the guard and gains entrance, pausing when he hears a woman singing lowly. Immediately Ichabod is transported to evenings at his mother’s knee, a book in his lap as his mother sits behind him, humming or singing as she completes her needlework. 

The promise of comfort brings Ichabod to the solar, and he smiles at the sight of his mother seated before the window, long and nimble fingers manipulating thread on the cloth stretching tightly between her embroidery hoops. Her long brown hair is bound in a single thick braid that spills over the top of the chair and down nearly to the floor. 

“What are you making now?” he asks, and grins when she whirls and gasps.

“Ichabod, my darling boy,” Aislinn cries, leaping from her chair to throw her arms around her only son. 

“I’ve missed you so,” she murmurs, reveling in how healthy he feels. “You’re different. Something’s different,” she says, and pulls back so she can see his face. 

“What happened? Why did you just leave without telling me? Know you have a loyal brother-in-arms in Bram; I couldna bribe nor guilt him.”

Ichabod looks sheepish as he takes his mother’s hands and guides her back to her chair. 

“I had business to take care of,” he says carefully as he picks up the discarded needlepoint and places it back in her lap.

Aislinn is not satisfied. 

“That’s it? What sort of mysterious business did you need to take care of that meant leaving without a word? You dinna have that type of business, Ichabod.”

Ichabod blushes under her chastisement. 

“It was an undertaking nae exactly sanctioned by Father,” he says.

“That is perhaps eighty percent of what you do, Ichabod Crane. Your father was in a right fit during your derring-do, nigh insufferable.”

“How’s that different from waking up any other morning?” Ichabod asks, and grabs his mother’s hand fondly when she tries to swat him. 

“I took a wife, Mother,” he says, searching her face for disappointment.

“You leave for over a moon to - to get a wife?” she asks. “If you dinna want to tell me the reason just don’t. I will nae tolerate lying.”

Ichabod huffs and continues to look at his mother until she blinks.

“You’re… serious? But why leave when there are plenty of women here to choose from?”

“Because the woman I wanted is a Mills. Was,” he corrects.

“Was?” Aislinn blinks and sighs heavily. “A Mills agreed to marry you?”

“Aye.” _Eventually_ , he thinks. 

“Always wanted what was just beyond your reach, even as a boy.” She sits forward and pulls Ichabod down to sit on the foot rest in front of her chair. “You know we Cranes are in a quarrel with the Mills.”

“For a reason none can give me, which is the height of idiocy,” Ichabod says. “And why are we bound to a quarrel that originates with two men who have been dead longer than I have lived?”

“Clan and pride, Ichabod. Fat years come and go. Resources grow and wane but do you ken what keeps a clan together? Pride. And you’ve effectively thrown that out the window for some Mills girl that caught your eye?” Aislinn shakes her head.

“She’s nae just some common Mills girl,” Ichabod says. 

“She’s Grace Abigail Mills. _Crane_ ,” he corrects himself yet again. 

Aislinn’s mouth drops open. 

“Oh. Oh dear,” she murmurs. 

“You’ve gone and married the princess of the Mills Clan. You… You got some nerve on you, do you nae, my boy?” She tries admonish but can’t help the note of pride in her voice.

“It wisna intended,” Ichabod admits. “We met and I realized I wouldna be happy without her.”

“All the rush of romance singing through your veins and you kidnap her to marry her. I should slap your fool head from your shoulders, but you’re practically vibrating with happiness.” Aislinn pulls him closer and cups his cheek. 

“What’s she like?” she whispers. 

Ichabod relaxes into his mother’s touch eagerly. 

“She’s so beautiful, Mother. Her spirit shines so brightly even when I close my eyes, and her voice… I can hear it always. Pushing me to make better decisions and to be a better man. She disna want to be a passive observer of clan business – Did you know the Mills have her trained to do much of what I do? We havena talked much about it, but she manages a great deal of day to day work for the clan.”

Aislinn finds her son’s enthusiasm catching. 

“And you didna think there was any better way to do all this?” she asks. 

“I do wish I had spoken to Abbie about it before putting my plan into place. I had Bram snatch her from the southern market.” Ichabod winces as she smacks him upside the head. 

“I suppose I deserve that,” he murmurs.

“And more,” Aislinn promises.“And somehow you got her to marry you? You have more of your father in you than you wish to acknowledge,” she says. “Why is she nae here?”

Ichabod rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. 

“She’s nae pregnant yet,” he says.

“But these things take time. It could be a year before she has her first child. Are you going to keep her locked away until then?” Aislinn shakes her head and rises to her feet. “That isnae how you make a family.”

“What would you have me do, Mother? The Mills envoy is coming day after tomorrow and they’re going to want to know where Abbie is; if I tell them they’ll kill us all. Between them and their allies they have enough numbers to remove Clan Crane from the maps.”

“Would’ve been better you thought that way before rather than now,” Aislinn snaps.

“Ach, you sound like Abbie,” Ichabod says as he hangs his shoulders.

“Good. I like her even more,” she says. “This is difficult. You are going to need to get your father to see the sense of making peace with Ezra. We canna afford war right now, Ichabod.”

“Yes, I know, Mother.”

Aislinn shakes her head. 

“Must be a hell of a woman. I canna wait to meet her.” 

She beams and grabs Ichabod’s hands again. 

“Is she beautiful? I think I’ve seen one of Ezra’s daughters but it’s been years. Wee slip of a girl, but she stood next to her father like she was his personal guard. It made me smile.”

Ichabod chuckles and squeezes his mother’s hands. 

“I am almost sure that was my Abbie,” he says.

“I want to know all about her, but you look like you’re about to fall on your face. Go sleep, my son. Somehow we will find a way to get your father to see reason before the Mills arrive.”

Ichabod bends to press a kiss to his mother’s brow. 

“Thank you, Mother,” he says gratefully, and smirks at the light smack on his cheek.

“Do try to come down for dinner; it puts your father in a good mood to parade his family around,” Aislinn mutters as she shoos him off. 

Ichabod wisely holds his tongue as he turns on his heel and heads for his chambers, the trip and subsequent altercation with his father making him feel weary. He looks forward to falling into bed, but his heart pangs when he realizes Abbie won’t be there. 

He doesn’t plan to be gone long; deal with the Mills coming and he’ll go back to her warm arms and soft smile. Ichabod can’t help but grin as he passes through his personal solar and into his bedroom. He pulls off his shirt and sighs heavily, looking around at everything that made up his life so far and finding that nothing feels familiar anymore. 

“I’m trying nae to be offended that I had to find out ye’ve returned from Bram.”

Ichabod whirls around and catches a purple-clad knee bouncing from where its owner sits in the chair just outside view from his vantage point in his bedroom. He swallows his sigh and rummages around in his dresser for shirt that didn’t smell like sweat and Cadeyrn. 

“Zoe, what are you doing here?” 

“I thought I said,” she says, not moving from her chair.

Ichabod steps into the room and frowns. 

“How’d you get in here?”

Zoe blinks and twists the ring on her fore finger. 

“I think the staff knows me by now,” she says levelly. 

“I’m quite tired, I’ve been travelling for some time,” Ichabod says, and sinks heavily in the chair across from her.

“Then it sounds like I’m needed here. I’ll call for a bath and when ye’ve bathed and soaked properly, I’ll give ye a rub down to remove the trip from your muscles. Ye look positively wretched, ach, poor thing.” 

Zoe rises, cutting a willowy figure in her violet gown. The color flatters her pale skin and unbound chestnut hair.

Once upon a time Ichabod may have found himself stirred at her offer, and at her slight beauty and keen intent, but now his heart is full of Abbie, and all he wants is for her to be here so she can grasp his shirt by the collar and pull him down for a kiss.

Zoe’s cool hand touches his shoulder and Ichabod throws it off, rising to his feet. 

“You shoudna be here,” he says. 

“And why should I nae?” she asks. “I’m always here when ye return, and don’t ye forget it, Ichabod Crane.”

Ichabod takes a deep breath before taking Zoe’s hand and looking her in the eye. 

“Miss Corinth, things have changed,” he says evenly, watching her eyes widen in indignation. 

“And what things are those, _Ichabod_?” she asks, stressing use of his first name.

“I am no longer a single man,” he says. “Please leave it at that; this is sensitive information and I must control how it is revealed.”

Zoe yanks her hand from Ichabod’s and glares at him incredulously. 

“Ye leave without word and return wed?” she hisses the last word as if it were a curse. “And what of us? What of our life together?” 

Ichabod shakes his head. 

“Zoe... I never imagined a life for us together,” he says, finally free to tell the bald truth. “You were a friend when I needed; a wonderful fountain of advice and a listening ear. All of which I value. I hope I was the same for you.”

“Ye were to be more than that,” she snaps. Hysteria pushes her voice higher. “How could ye be so selfish?”

“It is _my_ life, Zoe. If I canna be selfish with it every once in awhile, what’s the point of living?” he asks. 

Zoe scoffs and moves to stalk from the suite. 

“Zoe, please. You canna reveal what you know just yet.” 

Her expression doesn’t soften. 

“Please, Zoe; I ask this one last thing of our friendship.”

Zoe’s expression sharpens at the word and she whirls on Ichabod with spite in her eyes. 

“If I do this for ye, Ichabod Crane, it will cost ye dearly. Ye have scorned me in the manner of man I thought beneath ye,” she spits. “My mouth is sour just looking at ye, but it is closed.” 

“Thank you,” Ichabod says sincerely, and winces as Zoe slams the doors behind her. 

He thinks he should feel guilty and doesn’t like the idea that he’s hurt Zoe’s feelings but how many ways can a person show another they’re not interested and still be responsible? A weight is lifted from his shoulders and suddenly Ichabod is extremely tired. 

Reluctantly he falls into his bed, alone, and falls asleep almost immediately. 

~*~

_Ichabod wakes and immediately glances to his right; Abbie, deeply asleep, lies on her stomach next to him, the blanket having been kicked to the bottom of the bed during their lovemaking, and the sheet barely hiding the swell of her backside._

_He swallows and turns on his side, watching the gentle rise and fall of her back. She was his now, his wife. His to cherish and love and protect. Ichabod’s heart feels as if it’s four sizes too large for his chest as he moves closer to Abbie’s slumbering form and presses a quick kiss to her bare shoulder._

_She doesn’t rouse, and it gives him courage to kiss her shoulder again, and to lean closer and kiss the spot between her shoulder blades. Abbie moves just a little, murmuring in her sleep, but she falls still again. Ichabod tries to feel badly about waking her up but he knows he’ll have to depart in a few short hours and all he wants is his wife._

_He palms his morning erection and swallows the groan; the memory of Abbie’s tiny body clinging to his, gripping his cock so tightly makes him harder and Ichabod moves the sheet down to reveal her posterior to the pre-dawn light in all its glory. The firm globes encased in satin skin beckon for his mouth and so he indulges with great wet kisses, kneeling between Abbie’s splayed legs._

_Ichabod gathers the firm flesh in both hands and squeezes, resisting the urge to put his cock between the handfuls. Abbie shifts and arches her back, groaning at the sensations he’s producing. He moves further down the bed, unwilling to relinquish the treasure in his hands as he spreads her to get to the nectar already gathering in her curls._

_He licks a heavy stripe from her pearl to puckered entrance, and grins darkly at the fine shudder he feels move through Abbie’s body._

_“Oh, my god,” she says, half muffled as he turns onto his back and lifts her onto his mouth and begins tonguing deeply inside of her._

_Abbie rears up, thighs tightening around his head as he keeps her fastened to him by the hips. She begins rolling her body down onto his mouth and cries out when his teeth gently scrape the button at the top of her womanhood._

_“Ichabod, what are you – dinna stop- please,” Abbie whimpers, riding his face desperately._

_Ichabod inserts two fingers and marvels at how tight she still feels on his digits, then pumps them in and out. Abbie loses rhythm and falls forward onto her elbows, gasping and groaning his name. He wants to have patience but he needs to be inside of her, and he needs it now._

_With extreme reluctance he moves from beneath her and presses a kiss to the skin of her spine._

_“Abbie, I need you,” he says, looming over her and letting his cock drag across her ass. Abbie groans and pushes back, trapping it between her cheeks and pumping up and down._

_“How can you feel even larger than last night?” she asks with a laugh._

_“Because I know how you feel now and I canna wait,” he grumbles, running a hand down her back and over her ass. He thrusts a few times, moaning as the moisture from his cock smears down his shaft as he slides up. Ichabod wants to grind her into the bed; wants to settle his cock deeper into her ass and let its heat overwhelm him._

_Ichabod hunches over her just as Abbie adjusts and the blunt head of his cock slips down to her entrance and he sinks in just enough to make them both cry out._

_“Forgive me,” he mutters, and he uses his legs to widen Abbie’s and moves slowly into her body. Her tiny hands are knotted with his as he slides forward, unable to stop until he’s completely buried inside of her._

_She’s gripping him like a vice and Ichabod can barely breathe, barely see with the concentration needed not to move._

_“Abbie, are you alright?” he manages to get out. She’s clenching and unclenching around his length and Ichabod’s head drops to the dip between her shoulder blades._

_“Abbie?” he asks, moving her hair from her face so he can see._

_“If you dinna move I will never forgive you,” she says, and thrusts back against him._

_Ichabod laughs shakily and grinds himself into Abbie, swearing and marveling at how good she feels. He moves over something inside of her and Abbie lifts her head, gasping and shaking._

_“Ichabod,” her plea dissolving into a moan. “Please.”_

_Ichabod bites gently at the skin across her shoulders before he rises to his knees and grips her waist in his hands, marveling at how they just meet on both sides. He watches as he withdraws, his cock shiny with her juices, and slips back in again to the hilt. Abbie is vibrating in his hands, fisting the bedclothes and shaking her head._

_“Does it feel good,_ mo gràdh _?”_

_Abbie throws a lust-filled glare over her shoulder and shoves herself back onto his cock, bouncing her ample rear on his hips and then all restraint is broken. Ichabod holds her still and establishes a long, deep stroke, steady and unrelenting and Ichabod bellows as his length hardens even more._

_How can she feel so good and so tight? He releases his grip on her waist and stops, trying to put off the inevitable but his eyes bulge as Abbie raises to her hands and bounces her ass back onto his cock, moaning desperately._

_“You canna… just put it… in me and expect… me nae to - ugh – nae… to - oh, my god,” she shrieks, shuddering in the midst of her unexpected orgasm. Ichabod feels so thick and hard he could flex Abbie off of the bed with his cock alone, and breathes through his mouth in order to stave off his eruption._

_Abbie collapses onto the bed bonelessly, still fluttering around the steel that is Ichabod inside of her._

_“You havena come yet,” she says breathlessly._

_“Nay, because I have something I’ve wanted to do since I held you in my arms the first time,” Ichabod grumbles as he slides reluctantly from Abbie’s body. He gathers her in his arms, kissing her languidly until she begins to respond once more._

_“Do you remember the library, when you came apart with my hand?”_

_Abbie attempts to hide her face in the crook of his neck._

_“That wisna my fault; stop trying to embarrass me,” she mutters._

_“No, no,_ mo gràdh _, that was the sexiest thing I had ever seen,” Ichabod promises. “Nay, I only recall that instance so you know what I have wanted.”_

_She looks confused and he kisses her again._

_“I wish to have you against the wall, Abbie.”_

_Abbie blinks and looks up at him curiously._

_“I’ve heard of such a thing but… why, when we have a perfectly comfortable bed?”_

_“Beds are all well and good, but sometimes,” he says as he leans them against a tapestry hanging on the wall, “outside of the bed is just as fun.”_

_Ichabod kisses Abbie thoroughly as he moves between her legs, positioning himself at her entrance._

_Abbie gasps in his mouth as gravity takes over, shoving her down onto his shaft, so swollen its almost purple. He holds onto her ass and presses her into the wall before he thrusts up, desperate for release. Ichabod’s whole world has condensed into the places where his and Abbie’s bodies meet. She’s moaning almost continually into his mouth, unable to break the kiss or air they share._

_Abbie practically slips down his cock with strong, deep strokes aided by gravity and the nectar that coats the tops of Ichabod’s thighs as he ruts up into her, suckling at the hard peaks of her breasts as he thrusts._

_“Ichabod, I’m – oh god, oh god, yes, right there!” Abbie scratches her fingers through Ichabod’s hair and sobs her release into the skin of his neck._

_“Fill me with child, my husband,” she whispers in his ear and Ichabod roars into a blinding orgasm, thrusting mightily inside of Abbie as he tries to do just that. He comes so hard his legs cannot keep them both aloft and they slide down the wall, taking the tapestry with them._

_“Oh, Abbie, I’m so sorry, are you alright?” he asks after he gets his lungs working again. Abbie laughs, and when she moves he realizes he’s still inside of her._

_“I’m fine, though I think we may need a rehanging,” she murmurs, unable to look him in the eye._

_“Abbie, look at me,” he says softly. “Did you really--”_

“--plan on gettin’ up any time soon? Ye’ll miss dinner and I dinna think ye want yer father in any more of a mood. Wake _up_ , Ichabod!” 

Ichabod jerks at the sound of Bram’s voice. It’s no longer the morning before departing from his Abbie; he’s well and truly home in Carrann Dail and the sun has almost disappeared in the sky, twilight looming. Ichabod’s irritated with himself for oversleeping, thus giving Bram reason to bang against his bed chamber door. 

“I’m coming,” he snaps, coming to grips with no Abbie outside his blessedly eidetic memory. 

Ichabod groans; his cock still hard. It takes only the recall of Abbie’s sweet smile and two rough pumps of his fist to spill onto his hand. It’s unsatisfying and leaves him feeling worse than before, but at least he’ll be able to wear his kilt without giving someone an eyeful. 

“I will return to you as quickly as I can, _mo gràdh_ ,” he promises, his heart aching at the lingering memory, and prepares for dinner.

~*~

Most of the clan has heard about the visit from the Mills Clan, but only a few know the reason. 

That doesn’t stop Carrann Dail from sprucing up and putting on their best faces scrubbed clean and eager to look good clad in finery not seen in ages. 

It does wonders to look good in front of your enemies. 

The manor has been cleaned from top to bottom; all tapestries and décor taken down and either cleaned and rehung or discarded and replaced. The servants run around, all preparing for the envoy. Everyone has something to do.

Save Ichabod. 

He fervently wishes Abbie were beside him. She’d mock his seriousness gently, and touch the lapel of his shirt, her small hand soothing the coltish thoughts buzzing about his brain. But Abbie isn’t here, and Ichabod knows no amount of wishing will make it so. He does not have time to wallow in his loneliness though; by early afternoon a young, freckle-faced boy runs past the gates – The Mills have reached Craichidh.

The distance should take less than an hour, even on the most flea-ridden of nags, so Ichabod knows to expect them shortly. He joins his father and mother in the great hall. The nobles of the clan line the walls in their frippery trying to find a balance between curiosity and disinterest. 

Ichabod’s eyes are trained on the doors at the end of the hall, and he forces himself not to bounce his knee or adjust the circlet on his head.

Bram walks up the steps of the dais beside Ichabod and stands behind his throne. 

“They’re here,” he mutters, and Ichabod’s anticipation ratchets to unbearable levels. “Four, and a cart load of somethin’ that’s bein’ searched now.”

Ichabod nods, and glances over at his father getting the same report; his mother gives him a fond and reassuring smile. Ichabod straightens in his chair and it’s not long before a short trumpet blast cuts through the scattered conversation and the double doors at the end of the hall are thrown open with as much dramatic tension as can be mustered.

“Lady Jennifer Mills of Clan Mills,” is announced into the silence and Bram snorts quietly under his breath. 

“Ye probably got the pretty one,” he mutters out the corner of his mouth, grinning when Ichabod’s mouth twitches. “Be prepared for a knobby back and eyes that are comin’ and goin’.” 

Bram is pleased when Ichabod doesn’t look half as nervous as he did just a moment ago, but regretfully, he looks out onto the great hall floor as Jennifer Mills strides in.

Bram is awestruck and a little confused. When Katrina described Jenny she spoke of a slip of a girl, taller than Abbie – as if that was difficult – and a shade or two fairer. The woman that sweeps into the room is nothing short of a revelation clad in a heavy leather dress that falls away from a gorgeous leg as she moves through the room.

Bram thinks he catches a glimpse of brown thigh and his mouth dries. 

Ichabod is busy watching his friend more than the advancing envoy, hiding his glee as Bram cannot take his eyes from Jennifer’s fine form. Same could be said for most of the men gathered near the dais.

Bram takes in her long curly hair, swept up the sides to hold her circlet but in a dark fall down her back. The glint of the emerald in the crown matches the green in the Mills tartan, worn as a mantle across her chest, and though Bram knows they’ve been searched for weapons, he’d bet two of his cows that she still had something lethal upon her person.

“Lady Jennifer, welcome to Carrann Dail,” Orrin booms from his throne. 

Jennifer inclines her head at the collective on the dais. 

“Thank you, Lord Orrin. Greetings from Lord Ezra, Lady Lori and the rest of the Mills clan.” 

She gestures to the men who flank her, and together they lower a large, ornately carved trunk in front of Lady Jennifer, then open it to reveal it’s filled with finely milled wheat. 

“We come bearing one hundred pounds of various types of flours, and eighty bolts of hand-loomed fabrics. A gift from Lord and Lady Mills.”

Orrin’s and Ichabod’s right eyebrows rise simultaneously. Mills flours are known throughout Scotland and can fetch high prices even at the peak of harvest season. The hand-loomed fabrics utilize techniques that supposedly hail from their homeland, quite soft and extremely difficult to tear. This so-called gift is obscene in its price, and the low murmur that lights around the room shows everyone knows, especially Jennifer Mills, who sports a knowing smile on her face. 

Orrin swallows. 

“A most gracious gift,” he says. “What would the Mills clan want in return?”

“It’s a gift; given out of the goodness of our hearts. All we wish for is the continued good health of the Clan Crane, Lord Orrin. And perhaps your ear,” Lady Jennifer says, acknowledging the crowd in the room for the first time. “Privately.”

Aislinn glances at her husband and son and lifts a hand; the guards at the back begin ushering the villagers out of the room, quelling the grumble at having to miss what is obviously the main event. 

“Lady Jennifer, would you like a seat?”

“Aye. It has been quite a journey,” Jennifer says. 

Three guards step forward, two to remove the gift and one with a large wooden chair. The blond man at Lady Jennifer’s left steps forward so the man does not get within five feet of her person, and takes the chair himself. 

“Forgive Hawley; my men are… very dedicated to security,” she says, and removes the tartan mantle from her shoulders, draping it on the back of her chair after he’s placed it just so. 

“We were led to believe you had four men travelling with you,” Ichabod says, and Lady Jennifer finally glances at him, albeit appraisingly. 

“One of my companions elected to stay behind in the closest village,” she says. “He traveled with us because he had business nearby.”

Ichabod admires the way the lie falls from her lips, but he’s learned to trust his gut. 

“I hope his business is concluded satisfactorily,” he says, and the tug at Lady Jennifer’s mouth reveals she understands what he’s truly saying. 

“Thank you,” she says, and crosses her leg to reveal the top of her high boot and a bit of brown thigh; Ichabod glances up at Bram to find him positively riveted, and looks at his father to find him enthralled just the same. 

Ichabod rolls his eyes and clears his throat. 

Lady Jennifer’s smile is knowing as she glances over to see three men still lingering. 

“Who are these men?” she asks. 

“My advisors,” Lord Orrin says as Lords Dewar, Kerr, and Dunnet bristle at Lady Jennifer’s tone. “They remain.”

Lady Jennifer stares at the three men for a moment and sighs. 

“Then I will get to the point. My sister, Lady Grace, is missing.” 

Aislinn glances at Ichabod, her expression inscrutable. 

“I am sorry to hear that, Lady Jennifer. Do you suspect foul play?”

Lady Jennifer glances down at her lap and raises an eyebrow. 

“It has to be considered, but no ransom has been demanded, nor a body found.” 

“You’ve come to us, why?” Lord Orrin asks.

“We havena singled you out, if you’re asking that,” Lady Jennifer says. “We’re asking around to see if anyone has any information. My clan is willing to make it worth your time.”

Ichabod’s heart begins to pound as he watches the wheels in his father’s brain turn. 

“Speak plain, daughter of Ezra. What is offered if Lady Grace is found?”

“If you are instrumental in finding my sister, and she is found _alive_ ,” Lady Jennifer stresses, “Then we offer tilling rights for five seasons, fifty acres.”

Ichabod glares as Lord Dunnet drops his goblet in shock. 

“So much...for a daughter,” Lord Orrin murmurs. “And you are sure she has nae departed on her own?”

“We Mills do nae differentiate between daughters and sons,” Lady Jennifer says. “And my sister’s sense of duty is very strong. She understands her clan depends on her for leadership and would nae abandon us willingly.” 

She glances at Ichabod, who cannot look away. This is what Abbie had told him, or tried to tell him. He didn’t think of her people when he created this plan and implicated Bram. Fifty acres of some of the best farmland in Scotland? It isn’t even half of what the Mills command and till, but it would mean a much needed infusion of wealth to Clan Crane if they had rights for just one season.

Five seasons?

Ichabod straightens in his chair and glances once more over to his father. 

“I’m sure with such an enticement we could be encouraged to overlook our history, do you nae agree, Father?”

Lord Orrin nods. 

“You say you havena singled us out; how many other clans have been made this same promise?”

“The _offer_ ,” Lady Jennifer stresses, “has been presented to the Frasers, the MacDonalds, and the Iversons, so far.”

“So far?” Ichabod asks.

Lady Jennifer turns her gaze to him and smiles tightly. 

“We canna afford to limit our opportunities. Eventually someone will find her or find out where she is. We have plans to approach the Reynolds in the north and Forbes nearby. The more eyes we have the greater our chances, would you nae agree, Lord Ichabod?” 

Ichabod stares back at her before nodding tightly. “Aye,” he says. “You’ve approached so many clans nearby; are you suspecting Lady Grace is close?”

“We’ve reason to believe,” she says.

Silence stretches.

“...An’ those reasons are?” Lord Orrin prompts. 

“Things we’ve been able to uncover in the course of our investigation so far,” she says, and elaborates no further. 

The silence in the room grows uncomfortable as Lady Jennifer’s smile turns indulgent. 

“That’s all I wished to speak on,” she says. “I willna take up too much of Clan Crane’s time. Lord Orrin, Lady Aislinn.” She inclines her head. “Lord Ichabod.” 

Ichabod glances outside; it’s truly dark now, and it would only work in their favor to delay the envoy’s departure. 

“Father, surely we can offer Lady Jennifer and her men lodging for the night; the roads can be treacherous with no moon.”

“Absolutely,” Aislinn murmurs and gestures for servants to be sent immediately. “Please, accept our hospitality; we would feel responsible if you came to harm before sunrise.”

“You’re very gracious, Lady Aislinn. Our horses are tired and so are we, so on behalf of them and my men I thank you,” Lady Jennifer says.

“Done. We will have your horses seen to an’ you settled. If you need anythin’ at all dinna hesitate to ask.” Lord Orrin beckons the guards to open the doors, admitting the servants assigned to the envoy’s needs. 

“We’ll keep that in mind, Lord Orrin. Again, good night.” 

Ichabod nods, hiding his frown behind his hand as Jennifer and her men sweep out of the room much like they entered. No one moves or says a word until the doors are closed securely behind them. 

“You’ve both taken leave of your senses,” Orrin proclaims as he practically leaps from his throne. “Why would you offer them lodgin’ here?”

“To prove we have nothing to hide,” Aislinn says calmly. 

“Lady Aislinn, we dinna have anything to hide...do we?” Lord Kerr asks as he moves closer to the dais. 

Lord Orrin glares at the man. 

“Leave us,” he booms, stepping down when his advisors balk indignantly. The men leave in a scurry and Orrin pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I need ale. Ale,” he snaps at the servant nearest, and paces back to his throne. “This is a fine mess, my son. Fine mess.”

“I know it looks difficult at the moment, Father, but the rewards outweigh the risks.” Ichabod stands and raises his finger. “We are now married and once she’s with child our marriage canna be annulled. What is five years of tilling rights when the fields will be ours?”

“You assume you have time to get that far. So far you’ve wasted two months and no bairn. We Cranes are virile men; I canna imagine the lack of heir lies with you. It appears all you’ve done is secure yourself a barren bride.”

Ichabod stalks over to his father with intent; Aislinn barely has enough time to rise and stand between them. 

“I will nae have this right now,” she hisses. “It is in our best interest to be united rather than divided, would you nae agree? Orrin, your ale,” she says as the servant returns. 

“You had to choose a Mills,” Aislinn mutters, pushing Ichabod toward his throne as Orrin snatches the tankard and drinks deeply. 

“My heart would take no other,” Ichabod says.

“So everyone always says, but when pressed, you’d be surprised what the heart is able to endure.” Silently he stares into middle distance. “What if we were to give Lady Grace back to her clan,” Orrin reasons.

“Father-”

“Surely it would be in her best interest to maintain claim of her virtue,” Orrin continues. “If she is so enamored with you as you with her, she may go along with the plan an’ lay blame at some unnamed assailant’s door.”

“That disna solve the problems Abbie will face when she is returned,” Ichabod says. “There’s a reason the Mills have asked the Reynolds to look out for her, despite being Northmen; their chief’s son, Daniel, expects to wed Abbie himself.”

Orrin’s expression is positively bored as he looks back at his son. 

“And this is our problem why?”

“If she were forced to marry the Reynolds man it would mean they would have a foothold in the fields and valleys. They will command the prices of fish _and_ grain. We are no kin to the Reynolds; do you think they would hesitate to let us starve? At least the Mills keep their prices fair and they dinna turn away Crane coin.”

“And if we return their precious daughter to them they will reward us quite handsomely, if you recall,” Orrin says. “We’ve gambled enough on ifs and what mays. Our reality is standin’ before us, Ichabod. You may have to give up your bride.”

“Over my corpse,” Ichabod grinds out, and Aislinn gasps.

“You dinna get to talk that way, Ichabod Crane,” she says, her voice shaking. “We must see reason even when it goes against what we want.”

Ichabod tears his gaze from his father, softening as he takes his mother’s hands in his. 

“Mother, I love her like no other,” he says. “You are asking me to rip out a piece of my soul.”

“Is this to be my legacy? Useless sentimentality,” Orrin sneers. “Let the clan know what they stand to gain if you return your precious bride. She’s a Mills; she means less to them than tilling rights. One road leads to at least five years of guaranteed prosperity--probably more if managed correctly. 

“The other is the _possibility_ of an alliance that may or may no come to fruition, that may or may no be able to bear fruit! Two months, Ichabod. You’ve had _two months_ and still no sign of a child. She is defective an’ you are bargainin’ with all our family has built an’ maintained.”

“Since she is my wife, she is also a part of your clan, so I suggest you figure out a way to make this happen,” Ichabod says coldly, releasing his mother from his grasp and stalking from the great hall.

Ichabod’s anger is sharp and directed mostly at himself; there were too many variables he hadn’t considered at the onset. Too many chances taken. And somehow the thought that his father thought Abbie defective burns hottest in his chest. How can he tell Orrin that they’d only spent hours as husband and wife?

Ichabod wishes Abbie were here now; she’d tell him what to do and soothe the ache in his chest with a touch of her small hand. He missed her so much. How could he have left her behind? He should have defied his father and remained by her side. Cloistered in the castle with just the O’Learys would have been more welcome. 

He arrives at the doors that lead to his suite and pauses; there’s a note pinned to the wood marked with a falcon soaring over a sea of wheat; the Mills crest pressed in wax. Ichabod pries it from the door and unfolds the parchment. 

_Midnight, in the stables._

_Jennifer_

Ichabod looks over his shoulder as he folds the letter again, heart pounding as he slips into his suite. He’s got four hours to figure out what he’ll say to Abbie’s sister.

~*~

“Ach, done for the night, Mistress,” Fiona proclaims as she puts the last dish to rest. 

Mistress Eilidh glances up from where she’s peeling apples and nods briefly. 

“I’ll need ye back first thing to help with the guests, such as they are,” Mistress Eilidh murmurs as she twists her wrists and the skin falls away. 

Fiona dries her hands as she looks at the bins that overflow against the kitchen wall, full of various milled grains. 

“Have ye seen all the stuff they sent? I was told all the flour canna fit in the stores!”

Mistress Eilidh scoffs. 

“Dinna let the wealth fool ye; a truly gracious gift isnae a burden upon the receiver.” 

Fiona glances at the four burlap sacks stacked against the wall beside the kitchen exit, filled to the brim with some of the flours that had been given, more than likely ready to find their way into Mistress Eilidh’s home. Fiona barely covers her snort as she gathers her shawl and curtseys. 

“I’ll return at first light,” she says, and ducks out the entrance. 

Without a moon in the night sky, it’s extremely dark until Fiona reaches the main road; the lanterns create circles of light that orient her journey. She continues down past the road that leads to her home and doesn’t stop until she comes to another darkened home. Fiona knocks as loudly as she dares, edging away from any light that could identify her. 

After what seems like forever the door opens just a little, and brown eyes peer out. 

“Fiona Ross? Do ye nae know the time?” the servant behind the door hisses. 

Fiona glares. 

“Annot; let me in. Lord Stewart is expectin’ me.”

“Oh great, another meetin’ you’re niver gonna tell me about,” Annot says as she tries to hide her yawn. Fiona grabs her hand and pulls her close. 

“Ye’re nae yappin’ t’anyone that I’ve been here, have ye?” she hisses, her fingers digging into Annot’s palm.

“Goodness, Fiona, nay! Nae since ye’ve said,” Annot mutters and snatches her hand back. “No need for violence.”

Fiona’s expression softens as she takes her friend’s hand and kisses it quickly. 

“I’m sorry, I’m on edge and it’s nae yer fault.”

“Are ye ever gonna tell me what ye meet about?” Annot asks as she steps aside for Fiona to slip through, locking the door behind her. 

“Nay. Ye’re my best friend but it’s best ye dinna know,” Fiona whispers. “Where is he?” 

“In his study. Come on.” Annot takes her to the familiar door and raises her hand to knock, but Fiona stops her. 

“Nay, I’ll do it. Go, ‘fore he finds you here,” she mutters, and knocks on the door twice. 

“Enter!”

Fiona jerks her head down the corridor until Annot rolls her eyes and shuffles away, yawning again. Fiona opens the door to the study and finds Lord Stewart near a cheerfully burning flame, a series of parchments in his hands and on the small side table beside his chair. 

“Ah, Fiona. To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks as the girl closes the doors behind her. 

Fiona swallows. 

“I have some information ye may have some interest in, Lord Stewart,” she murmurs.

Lord Stewart peers at her and beckons her closer. 

“So soon?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair opposite of him. 

Fiona practically vibrates. 

“Yes, milord.”

Lord Stewart nods indulgently. 

“Unburden your soul.” 

Fiona spills everything she overheard from the dais excitedly, Stewart’s keen expression never changing. 

“Good. Very good. Thank you, Fiona. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

Fiona falters at the obvious dismissal. 

“Lord Stewart, I’ve dutifully relayed all interestin’ information I’ve come across…”

“…And?” Stewart prompts.

“An’ ye havena paid me the last four times,” Fiona says.

Stewart’s jaw moves back and forth as he regards the girl. 

“If you seem to recall, it was _my_ recommendation that you replace your mother in the castle after she fell ill.”

“Aye, milord. I’ve always been grateful,” Fiona reassures him. “It’s just ye said ye’d pay me for information an’ I’m only tryin’ ta save a bit of coin for my weddin’ next spring,” she says, warily watching Lord Stewart rise from his chair.

Stewart’s smile is no longer indulgent as he crosses behind Fiona’s chair. 

“You have grown into such a beautiful woman,” he murmurs, placing his hand on her shoulder. 

Fiona starts at the contact, and quickly swallows. 

“Thank ye, milord.”

“Have you remained… pure for your intended?” he asks, running his hand along her collarbone. 

Fiona shivers. 

“Aye,” she whispers, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. 

“Then it would be a shame if something were to compromise your virtue in the eyes of your young man, would you no say?” 

“Uncle Ainsley, just pay the girl,” Zoe says as she closes the door behind her. “No need to threaten her life over some coins.”

Stewart glares briefly at his niece as he pulls his coin purse from his belt and throws Fiona three Scottish crowns, all of which tumble to the floor. Fiona immediately stoops to gather the money. 

“Leave,” he demands, and Fiona scurries out the study. 

“Really, uncle. Ye have no interest in her beyond what her ears can hear. Why turn her against ye when ye can merely pay her?” Zoe asks.

“Nothing wrong with a bit of fun, my dear,” Stewart says.

“Touch her again, Uncle Ainsley, and I will find someone to have a ‘bit of fun’ with ye,” she says sweetly. 

“Your relationship with Ichabod,” Stewart says, ignoring Zoe’s words for now. “How close are you to him?”

“Nae at all,” she sniffs. 

“Why?”

“I canna say why.”

“Because he’s married,” Stewart supplies.

“How’d you - ?” Zoe glances at the door Fiona fled through. 

“He married the missing Mills girl.”

Zoe laughs. 

“He wouldna be so stupid,” she says. “And what would he want with a Mills?”

“Like most men Ichabod Crane thinks with his cock first. I have seen Lady Grace and her name barely does her justice.” He smiles as he remembers the last time he caught a glimpse of Lady Grace.

Zoe’s jaw tightens. 

“Well, I hope they’re quite happy together,” she retorts, turning on her heel. 

“Get your fool head out of your feelings and listen,” Stewart mutters as he grabs her elbow and throws her onto a chair. “Are you telling me you dinna want him anymore?”

Zoe’s openly skeptical. 

“What d’ye mean?”

“If we get Lady Grace to her infernal people they will never let the marriage stand. It will be annulled and he will be yours again,” Stewart promises.

“We didna part on the best of terms.”

“Dinna be stupid, girl. Regain his confidence and prove your friendship by keeping his secrets and leave everything else to me,” he says. “If our cards are played right, you’ll be Lady of the Clan when we rid the world of Orrin.”

Zoe sighs loudly, a smile turning her lips. 

“Well. Look at what a day can bring,” she practically purrs. 

~*~

Ichabod enters the mostly darkened stable and closes the door behind him. There’s no reaction to the scrape of the wooden door save the nickering of horses, so he pulls the torch from the wall beside the door and lights it as he moves down the rows of sleeping and resting horses. He pauses to rub Cadeyrn on the nose before ambling down to where guests’ horses are stored. 

At the far end of the corridor a shadow parts from the darkness and Lady Jennifer appears, looking younger but no less lethal without her circlet on. 

“I am here,” Ichabod says. “Though I am forced to sneak about my own home.”

Lady Jennifer scoffs. 

“You should be used to sneaking around, Ichabod Crane,” she says. “And I told you to come alone.”

Ichabod begins to take offense at her words, and turns around in the darkness. 

“Now see here, I am alone,” he says. “You’re the one who called this little talk; perhaps if you’d like to continue to impugn my honor we should continue to do so in front of my parents.” 

A sigh from above is all the warning Ichabod has before Bram drops from the beams, landing silently between Lady Jennifer and himself.

“Ach, what gave me away,” Bram asked sheepishly.

“Your eyes glinted in the darkness.” 

The two men start as one of Lady Jennifer’s men come out of the supposedly empty shadows. 

“You tell me to come alone and you have someone with you?” Ichabod asks. 

“Why would I ask for myself to come alone?” Jennifer shakes her head. “Lord Frank just likes to be dramatic.”

“I dinna often get the chance,” the man says seriously. 

“I didna ask Bram to be here. When did you get here?” Ichabod hisses at his friend.

“Since ye turned for the night,” Bram says. “I saw the note and figured someone should wait to make sure you dinna come to harm.”

“I havena come to harm you, Ichabod. I should think my sister would take offense,” Lady Jennifer grins at the horror on Ichabod’s face. “You thought I didna know?”

Ichabod’s heart is pounding. 

“How did you know?”

“If I didna know before I would know now,” Lady Jennifer says, and turns to share a chuckle with Lord Frank.

“Ach, Ichabod,” Bram says pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“For someone who has risked war between our clans, you’re nae that bright are you?” Lady Jennifer turns back and shakes her head. “Wonder what Abbie sees in you.”

“So you know,” Ichabod says coldly. “Why the farce, Lady Jennifer?”

“Necessity; and call me Jenny,” she says. “Since we’re family.”

“Jenny,” Ichabod says, inclining his head. “Who else knows?” 

“Myself. Hawley, my second, and Frank. I canna even tell our mother, worried as she is. If we were to tell her, she would tell my father and he will nae forgive nor forget. Nae in his condition,” Jenny says.

Ichabod clears his throat. 

“So Lord Ezra does have the sundown sickness?” he asks. 

“Aye,” Frank says, sadly. 

“He’s susceptible to flies buzzing in his ear. The third man with me is Lord Daniel, son of Breac, the main chief of the northern clans. He is hell bent on finding Abbie, and when my father is lucid he remembers Daniel, and remembers to trust him.” Jenny shakes her head. “But he’s nae to be trusted.”

“And Daniel disna know?” Ichabod asks, and Jenny shakes her head. 

“The fact that Abbie hadna returned left me with two scenarios. One, she was dead and I refused to believe that until I had her corpse in my arms. Two, she wanted to be where she was, but couldna return just yet. She wouldna abandon the clan for selfish reasons, no matter how much I thought she should.”

Ichabod swallows under the weight of this new information. 

“Your sister is singular in spirit and heart,” he says.

Jenny’s smile is faint. 

“You should school your features any time someone says her name. You’ll give yourself away.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You say that, but you willna. You have the look of a man in love with his wife. I recognize that same look when I am before a mirror,” Frank says grimly. “Therefore our options are limited.”

“I suggested Daniel stay in town in order to find clues as to Abbie’s whereabouts, but we need to get her back in the midst before he provokes a war. My mother canna hold my father’s ear like she normally does and he looks at me most of the time and…” Jenny scoffs. “He disna see me. He spends most evenings calling for Abbie.” 

She shakes her head. 

“My sister must really love you if you’ve created this mess and are still alive.”

Ichabod looks at Jenny curiously, but says nothing. 

“What do you need done?”

“Return with her. You’ve married her, correct?” Jenny asks.

“Aye,” Ichabod says.

“Then bring her back. My clan will respect the marriage. The issue is the Reynolds clan. Will the Cranes stand with us if it comes to such?”

Ichabod swallows. 

“My marriage to your sister is only ironclad if she is with child.”

“No one knows the timing of that,” she hisses. “It can be years or right away!” 

Jenny shakes her head throws her hands up. 

“Since we know it wisna right away it’s going to take too long,” she says. 

Ichabod wants to correct Jenny’s assumed time line, but again feels a rush of shame that stills his lips. 

“I am well aware.”

“Well, finally,” Jenny snaps. “When do you return to her?” 

“She’s only a day’s ride away, in –”

“Dinna tell us,” Frank interrupts. “If we dinna know we canna tell.”

“Return to my sister and give her these.” Jenny produces four scrolls of parchment sealed with the Mills crest. “You’ll need to figure out something, Ichabod. Fake the pregnancy-- _something_ \--so she can come back. That will keep my clan from falling into the hands of the Reynolds and keep your marriage safe. I canna see any other way out of this.”

Ichabod fingers the Mills crest and nods. 

“I’ll leave at first light.”

“You canna. Wait until we leave,” Jenny says. “Make sure we’re out of your lands before you begin your journey.”

“Be on the lookout, Lord Crane,” Frank says. “Daniel willna hesitate to kill you, and take Abbie as his, regardless of marital status. You canna protect her from the grave.”

“Aye.” Ichabod turns to Bram, who has been silently staring at Jenny the entire conversation. 

“Ach, come Bram, before we’re missed.”

“Pleasure makin’ yer acquaintance, Lady Jennifer,” Bram says, and gives an exaggerated bow.

Jenny laughs, low and delighted, before she clears her throat.

“Lord Bram,” she murmurs, stepping back into the shadows. She and Frank disappear like fine mist and Bram whistles low. 

“Aye, what a woman,” he mutters.

~*~

Abbie adjusts the tartan overskirt and shakes her head at her reflection. 

“It’s so strange, wearing someone else’s tartan,” she murmurs, turning this way and that. 

Siobhan finishes the last of her plaits and twists it into the bun at the back of Abbie’s head. 

“He’s yer husband, so ye’ll get used to it. It looks beautiful on ye,” she says. 

Abbie turns her head and smiles. 

“Thank you, Siobhan. You’re a quick learner, and you’re able to get to where I struggle. It looks much better.”

“Yer hair is so much softer than I’ve been lead to believe,” Siobhan says happily, then trails off at Abbie’s expression. “Not that I thought it was hard or anythin’, milady,” she says quickly.

“Please, Siobhan, it’s fine.” Abbie presses the back of her hand to her mouth to swallow the nerves. “He’ll be here shortly. Have your mother prepare a late lunch in the dining room and tell your father we need fresh roses for the dining room and the library.”

“How about in here, milady?” Siobhan asks.

Abbie remembers the last time they were affectionate in the midst of the wild roses and cannot hide her grin. 

“Perfect.”

“Aye, milady.” Siobhan bobs a curtsey and leaves to relay the orders.

Famhair lifts his head semi-interestedly, but when Abbie doesn’t leave the room he doesn’t bother to rise from the bed. She stops before him and rubs his stomach gently. 

“My husband returns,” she croons and Famhair wags his tail happily. 

Alone in their bedroom, Abbie lets her heart sing at the prospect of welcoming Ichabod back home, and her skin over warms at the thought of lying in his embrace. The large bed seems even larger without him, even with Famhair growing like a weed. She has to glance away because just a stray memory makes her body call to him. Abbie fans herself and claps once to get Famhair to tumble from the bed. 

“Come, there’s much work to be done,” she says, and she and the pup rush from the room. 

~*~

Hours later in Carrann Dail, Ichabod loads Cadeyrn and manages to slip out of the village in the late afternoon. The morning consisted of playing nice and aloof around the Mills envoy until their departure and forcing Orrin to do nothing until he’d returned with Abigail. 

Ichabod’s mood is sour because he told his beloved it would only be two days, and here it is, the third day, and he’s just leaving Carrann Dail. She’ll have words for him, Ichabod knows, and he’ll take them if it means he can look at her, hold her and kiss her. Perhaps she’ll put her arms around his neck and press her mouth to his.

…Amongst other things.

He adjusts himself in the saddle and curses under his breath. 

“No need to get ahead of yourself. Just get home.” Ichabod marvels how Castle Donnáin is more home than Carrann Dail now. He urges Cadeyrn into a trot as he begins to hum, determined to make good time. 

After an hour he comes the fork in the road. The road that continues straight runs into a very popular trade depot, where the one that veers right leads closer to Duhnorum Valley and to Abbie. 

Ichabod hears a clattering of hooves and he pulls Cadeyrn to a stop as he twists to find out who’s coming up behind him. It’s a simple black coach with a driver up top, and when it pulls up alongside he spots the Mills crest and swallows almost audibly. The curtain rises and an unfamiliar face greets him. 

“Lord Ichabod Crane?” he asks.

“Aye,” Ichabod says warily. “And who might you be?” 

The man's smile is easy and charismatic as a snake's coil. 

“Daniel, son of Breac, of Clan Reynolds.”

Ichabod swallows and inclines his head respectfully. 

“Lord Daniel, you surprise me; we dinna get many Northmen down this way.”

“We are a bit of a rarity the further south you go, hence our name, I guess,” he says easily. “Apologies I wisna able to meet you yesterday; I became unavoidably detained by business in Craichidh.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Ichabod says graciously. “You’re here conducting business on behalf of the Mills Clan?”

“Something like that. It’s more of a joint effort. Where are you headed?” Daniel asks.

“Tarland, just some ways down the road.”

“Wisna aware there was a town this way,” Daniel says. “I should probably get a proper map.”

“It’s really nae so much a town as a depot for trading. I’m hoping to get a jump on venison before the season changes.” 

Ichabod calms Cadeyrn as the beast picks up on his anxiety. 

Daniel peers up into the cloudless sky. 

“You should join me; I am going in that direction and would be glad for the company.”

“I dinna want to trouble you,” Ichabod counters. 

“The sun is relentless and it wouldna do for Orrin Crane’s son to be waylaid by sun sickness, would it?” Daniel opens the door and moves away. 

Ichabod realizes he can’t further turn down the ride without appearing suspicious, and he dismounts his horse to tie it to the carriage’s back post. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and closes himself in a small space with what is currently his most dangerous enemy, without a suitable weapon.

This will be a long journey.

_Forgive me, my Abbie_.

~*~

Maighread clears her throat before blowing out the candles. 

“Ian, where’s Lady Abigail?”

“She’s still outside,” he says.

“Has she accepted any food or drink ye brought her?”

“Nay.” Ian looks troubled. “What should we do? Sundown’ll be soon and a storm’s comin’.”

Maighread looks at the food she’ll have to put away, and sighs. 

“I’ll bring her in.” She grabs the roast chicken and takes it back to the kitchen before exiting through the servant’s door and looping around to the front of the castle. 

Lady Abigail is a striking, if tiny, figure amongst the waving grass. Nightfall approaches and with it the heavy smell of rain, the air filled with the promise of a summer storm. 

“Lady Abigail, please come inside,” Maighread pleads. “He’s not coming.”

“You dinna know that,” Lady Abigail says, still staring at the lane leading to the castle. “He said he would return in two days and I gave him an additional day. He will be here.”

“It’s about to storm. Ye don’t want to catch fever and fall ill, do ye?”

At the word fever Lady Abigail seems to rouse. 

“No, I guess nae,” she murmurs, and allows Maighread to lead her back inside. “I’m going to retire for the evening.”

“I’ll have Siobhan come up with some supper,” Maighread says, patting Lady Abigail’s hand. 

“No need, I dinna have an appetite. I’m just going to turn in early.”

“Aye, milady,” Maighread says, and leads her to the master apartment.. At the door Lady Abigail turns to her.

“Maighread, do you believe in omens? Signs?” she asks.

Maighread nods. 

“I sure do. Wouldn’t be a proper Irish girl if I didn’t.”

“Something about this storm,” Lady Abigail murmurs. “I canna help but feel it’s a sign of what’s to come.”

Maighread smiles fondly and pats her hand once more. 

“New marriages always feel full of potent omens but I promise ye, with that husband of yers and yer beautiful spirit, ye will make yer own future.”

Lady Abigail squeezes Maighread’s hand briefly, but her smile does not reach her eyes.

“Good night, Maighread. I will see you in the morning.”

“Aye, milady.” Maighread drops into a curtsey and doesn’t rise until the door shuts before her. 


	9. Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When every move is less than ideal, sometimes all you can do is wait.

It’s midday when Bram glances up from the guard rotation assignments just in time to see a familiar figure trot through the gates of the castle. 

_Ichabod?_ He wonders, but knows that cannot be; not this soon.

Dread settles in the pit of his stomach; something has to be dreadfully wrong.

Bram runs down the stairs of the watchtower, crossing the activity yard and into the stables. Ichabod glances up at him, his face white and tight with fury. Bram nods and helps him unpack Cadeyrn, waiting for Ichabod to calm down enough to speak. Eventually he tells Bram about his brush with one Lord Daniel Reynolds.

Bram swallows and exhales forcefully. 

“Ye think he’s on ta ye?”

“If he were, I dinna think he would’ve hesitated to run me through.” Ichabod considers. “I do think he’s suspicious. Why else waylay me for over a day?”

“D’ye think he’s playin’ games or have ye satisfied his curiosity?”

“I’m nae sure,” Ichabod admits. “Too little information to know either way.”

“At least ye ended up securin’ enough venison for the season, and huntin’ rights for fall,” Bram says, and blanches at Ichabod’s expression. “What? I am attemptin’ to look on the bright side.”

“There is no bright side,” Ichabod says. “I told Abbie I would return within two days. It’s been four already.”

“Send word,” Bram says.

Ichabod sighs and looks at Bram. 

“Who would I send word with besides you?” he asks.

“Then I’ll go,” Bram says.

Ichabod shakes his head. 

“On the way back I could’ve sworn I was being watched multiple times,” he murmurs. “I dinna think it’s safe.”

“You think the Reynolds have that far of a reach?” Bram scoffs.

“If they fly Mills colors, I do,” Ichabod says.

Bram frowns. “Alright, that’s serious. Any proof?”

“Nay, which is why I havena said anything,” Ichabod says.

Bram watches Ichabod wrestle with the reality that his plans are falling apart. 

“Hey, maybe ye can make another attempt. In a sennight. The surveillance would have ta be over by then.”

“You’re right,” Ichabod says dully.

“I’m right? So why are ye lookin’ like it’s still the end of the world?” Bram demands.

Ichabod sighs. 

“I promised Abbie. It’s been so slow getting her to give me her heart again and just when we’re making headway… It is hurting me to break that promise. I dinna think I can take her thinking less of me again.”

“Ichabod, there’s naught ye can do. Think, man; how would ye feel if ye lead the Reynolds straight ta her?” Bram asks.

Ichabod shudders. 

“On the way to Tarland, Daniel talked about her. Abbie,” he clarifies, staring into middle distance. “He said he’s never loved a creature as much as he loves Abbie, and how much she loves him and how she has to be beside herself without him and that he’d do anything at all to get her back and all I could think is that he disna know a thing about her.

“He wants to treat her like an ornament, and keep her on a shelf. I plan to love her for the rest of her life, and see to her happiness.” Ichabod sighs. “If I must wait, I must wait. I’ll try again in three days.”

Bram frowns. 

“Ichabod…”

“Three days,” he repeats, and leaves the stables in a sullen mood.

~*~

The sun is past the midpoint in the sky and Angus has to shield his eyes with his hand before he pulls his hat on, relieved for the shade. The weather is still pleasant; being near the water keeps the breeze cool, but soon even the breeze will feel like warm breath and everyone will seek the best shade available.

Angus pulls the cloth from his pants pocket and wipes at his neck and brow before rounding the side of the castle. It’s easy to spot the lone figure on the lawn, her dark crimson dress billowing in the wind.

“Lady Crane?” he calls; no response.

Angus waits but his petite mistress does not acknowledge him. 

“Lady Crane?” he asks again, coming closer.

Abbie turns and blinks at him. 

“I guess that’s me, now.” She chuckles. “Angus, I’m sorry; I dinna think I’m quite used to being called Lady Crane,” she confesses.

“Quite alright, milady. My old lady just wanted to know where you wanted to have lunch. I told her I’d ask since you were outside.” 

The word “again” remains unspoken but heard.

Abbie turns back to stare at the lane that leads to the castle. 

“It’s only been a week,” she says, softly. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Angus is unsure if she’s speaking to him or herself. 

“Milady? Lunch?” He watches as she touches her stomach and looks vaguely ill.

“I’m nae hungry. Please, make sure you eat whatever Maighread has prepared. I dinna want it to go to waste,” Abbie says, still staring at the lane.

Angus hesitates. 

“Are you sure, milady?”

Abbie turns and places her hand on his forearm softly. 

“Angus, please enjoy lunch with your family.”

“Can Siobhan bring you anythin’ to drink? The sun is high and can make you lose your appetite if you’re not careful.”

Abbie considers. 

“Thank you. Siobhan can bring it to my room, after she’s had lunch,” she adds.

Angus ducks and shakes his head. What had his family done to be in the employ of such an amazing woman? 

“Aye,” he says, and returns to the kitchens. He sighs heavily when he spots his wife, who looks at him hopefully.

Maighread’s smile wilts when Angus shakes his head as he comes to stand beside her. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” he says.

“She’s lovesick,” she mutters, whipping the cream in the bowl as hard as her frown.

“You think it love?” Angus asks.

Maighread pauses to glare at her husband. 

“Lord Ichabod loves Lady Abigail – ye can tell any time they’re in the room together. Now to have him leave the day after the weddin’? What kind of start is that?”

Angus shakes his head. 

“There’s nothin’ to be done, and we have no way of findin’ out what has happened, and somethin’ has to have happened if Lord Ichabod said he’d return by a certain day and he hasn’t.” 

He attempts to reach into the bowl and winces as his hand is slapped away.

“Aye,” Maighread said, glaring. “I’m doin’ all I can to keep her well until he returns.”

“She’s agreed to tea,” Angus says. “That’s better than nothin’.”

“I’ll send some broth up, too. Get some sort of nourishment into her wee body.” Maighread glances around the kitchen. “I suppose I should put everythin’ away.”

“Nay,” Angus says. “Lady Abigail says we’re to eat and enjoy. I plan to gorge myself on your roast chicken, woman,” he says, and presses a wet kiss to her cheek before ducking away when Maighread laughs and shoos him away.

~*~

Ichabod is seething when he returns to Carrann Dail. Anyone who catches glimpse of his face gives him wide berth, and for the first time in a long time he lets one of the attendants see to Cadeyrn as he stalks off to his rooms.

No one speaks to him and no one tries to stop him, which he finds the highest of irony given the current situation. But he isn’t about to complain about being left alone, he thinks when he closes the doors to his apartment behind him.

He senses movement from the left and turns to find Zoe standing against the wall, watching him curiously. 

“Ichabod,” she says.

He scoffs and turns away. 

“I’m nae in the mood,” he says.

“Mood. Interesting choice of words.” Zoe sighs. “What’s the matter?”

“Why do you think something’s the matter?” Ichabod asks as he stalks toward his bed chamber door. Sleep seems to be the only thing that doesn’t disappoint him as completely as being awake.

“It’s as if something has sucked away yer charm and disposition. I’ve actually had to ask my uncle to overlook yer… tone on more than one occasion.” Zoe steps forward, moving stand beside him.

“Do you wish me to thank you, Zoe?” Ichabod asks, changing his mind and going for his alcohol instead. Her proximity makes him yearn for Abbie anew and Ichabod knows he won’t be able to rest in his current emotional state. He pours his tankard halfway, then reconsiders and fills it the rest of the way.

“I want ye to confide in me like ye used to,” she says.

Ichabod swallows down some whisky and revels in the burn down his chest. 

“When we _were_ friends?”

“Ichabod –”

“Do you forget what you said to me the last time you were here?” he asks.

Zoe rolls her eyes and leans her hip against the table. 

“Imagine being in my shoes, Ichabod. That the man ye … that a good friend reappears after being gone for almost two months, just to tell ye they’re now married. I was hurt and upset.”

“Was?” Ichabod asks, and finishes the rest of his drink. “But now?”

“Now… it still hurts,” she admits. “But I just want to be there for ye. As a friend,” Zoe clarifies. She takes the glass from Ichabod’s hand gently and refills it before offering it again. Zoe sighs. “We were friends, were we nae, Ichabod?”

Ichabod takes the glass and looks at her hand next to his and nods. 

“Aye,” he whispers.

“And I would like to be friends again,” she says. “I get the feeling ye could use a friend. Other than Bram,” she jokes.

Ichabod laughs softly at the old joke between them. 

“There isnae anything wrong with Bram that canna be cured with a good, strong woman and limited access to cabbage.”

Zoe smiles wider before she leans over to nudge Ichabod with her shoulder. 

“Ye’re here in body but definitely not in mind nor spirit.”

“I miss her so,” Ichabod says. “I miss her so much it literally hurts, all the way down to my bones,” he admits.

Zoe stares at the stricken look on his face and wonders when he’ll look at her in such a way. 

“Tell me about her!” she asks, forcing a smile just enough. “What’s her name?”

“Abbie.”

Zoe wracks her memory. 

“I dinna know an Abbie,” she says after a moment. “Who’s her people?” 

“Those are complicated questions,” Ichabod says, and downs the rest of his whisky.

“Not really,” she says. Ichabod stares at his cup sullenly. “So ye canna tell me what clan she belongs to?”

Ichabod leans back in his chair warily, putting his glass down on the table. 

“I thought I was doing the right thing, but everywhere I turn I realize there was so much I didna anticipate. I was so stupid, Zoe,” he murmurs.

Zoe shakes her head and pours them both more to drink. 

“Ye’re never stupid, Ichabod,” she says, marveling at her ability to sound sincere. “Ye’re passionate and ye make split second decisions that most couldna.” 

She takes a swallow and dangles Ichabod’s glass in front of him until he accepts it, waiting until he drinks before taking the chair across from him.

“Nae this time.” Ichabod leans back and shakes his head. “I told her I would return in two days.”

“When was that?”

“A fortnight ago.”

Zoe’s eyes widen behind her glass as she sips the amber liquid. 

“That’s a considerable amount of time,” she says.

“Do you think I am unaware of that?” he snaps.

“Nay,” Zoe says carefully. “But how d’ye know she’s still there? If someone married me and then left without a word I might nae stick around,” Zoe says, and shrieks when Ichabod throws his glass against the wall.

“If this is your idea of being my friend I would hate to be your enemy,” Ichabod says.

Zoe takes a trembling breath before glaring at him. 

“Ye need to stop acting like a child,” she says.

“I’m acting like a child?” Ichabod grounds out. “You have no idea what I’m going through.”

“No, I guess I dinna,” Zoe says quietly. “But it’s difficult to watch ye walk around and be this… this surly thing that more often than no drinks his dinner rather’n eats it. Why should I nae be worried?”

Ichabod feels his cheeks warm; he hadn’t realized he’d gone so far off the rails. 

“The world has no color,” he murmurs. 

“Food has no taste and there’s no solace in sleep. I need her like I need air,” he says.

Zoe swallows at his proclamation, and covers her burning discomfort by finishing her drink. 

“So, tell me about your Abbie.”

Ichabod hesitates; this is Zoe – he’s known her for over ten years! He’s growing desperate with the desire to gloat about his precious treasure.

“I told ye afore I would keep yer secrets, Ichabod. Would ye nae feel better if ye had someone to talk to?”

Ichabod sighs. 

“You mean besides Bram?” he jokes. “Zoe, if I tell you about Abbie you’re going to have to keep it between us. No one may know, nae even your uncle.”

Zoe raises her hand and swears. 

“May God strike me down,” she says, and leans forward.

~*~

It’s still dark when Abbie manages to pull herself out of bed. She’s hit with a wave of nausea; sleep was poor and she has a lot on her mind. The lethargy in her bones makes her morning ablutions a hollow routine. Afterward she shuffles through her wardrobe for something lightweight and easy to ride in, settling on a light blue and white linen dress with an ornate eyelet hood.

Abbie moves as quickly as possible, but has to slow as she tries to squeeze into her bodice. Hissing at the tenderness in her bosom, Abbie bites her lip as she attempts to fasten the ties. Eventually the soreness forces her to only lightly tie the laces at the top and even then she feels like she’s spilling over, almost obscenely so.

Abbie turns and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face is drawn and grey, her hair looks dull and lifeless and all she wants to do is sleep. But she can’t rest without knowing Ichabod is healthy and whole and preferably in her arms. So fine, Abbie will go find him and drag his lanky body back to this castle where they can pretend they’re not Mills or Cranes and can just be husband and wife.

Together.

She almost laughs aloud at the impossibility.

Abbie grabs her riding gloves and moves quietly to the stables, sure not be too loud opening the stable doors. The only horses currently accommodated belong to the O’Learys; two practically identical black stallions named Cain and Abel and the one Abbie is looking for, a sweet mare named Dorcha.

“Aye, Dorcha. How are you doing, lass?” Abbie croons as she produces a carrot to dangle in front of the beast. Dorcha eyes the treat warily, but uses her lips to remove the vegetable from Abbie’s palm. 

“Are you going to let me ride?” Dorcha looks as if she doesn’t care either way, and Abbie goes about dressing her as quickly as she can manage.

It takes her longer than she wants, considering how difficult and time consuming it was to move the saddle, but Abbie leads Dorcha out of the stall and next to a bale of hay that hadn’t been broken down yet. Abbie climbs the bale and swings her leg over, settling in and feeling a bit sick to her stomach.

_Now’s nae the time for nerves._

“Agreed,” she says to Dorcha, as if it’s their private conversation. Abbie lifts her lace hood over her hair and realizes she can’t stall any longer. Before she can talk herself out of it Abbie grabs the reins and uses her heels to nudge the mare on and forward. God willing she’ll make it to the border of the valley and she’ll get her bearings.

After that? She’s not sure, but she aims to find her husband.

~

“What d’ye mean, gone?” Maighread stares at her daughter as if she’s grown another head.

Siobhan gestures feebly. 

“She’s not in her apartment, Ma. I checked the library, but it’s cold and dark and no one’s been in there in days. She’s not in her maiden chambers and she’s nowhere on the grounds.”

“So ye mean to tell me she just _walked_ away?” Maighread screeches.

“Aye, Mother – no she didn’t just walk away. Dorcha’s missin’,” Angus says, catching the tail end of the conversation. “I believe Lady Crane went after her Lord.”

Maighread shakes her head. 

“Bless her soul. Nothin’ short of what I would’ve done had ye taken off,” she mutters at Angus. 

“But she can’t be out there alone. Take Ian and find her. She’s not well enough to be out and about and if anythin’ happens to her I don’t know what I’ll do,” Maighread frets.

“Ma, she’ll be fine. Lady Abigail is strong in body and spirit,” Siobhan says.

Maighread holds her tongue; love can bring low the mighty and the meager alike. 

“Just find her, Angus. Find her, and bring her back.”

“Aye, lass; it’ll be fine,” Angus promises and ducks back down to the stables. Inside, Ian has already begun preparing Cain and Abel.

“Da, what does Ma say?” Ian asks as he leads the horses out of their stalls. Aidan and Famhair are settled in a pile of hay, watching interestedly and staying out of the way.

“That we’re to find Lady Crane, and quick. She’s not well. Famhair, come! You can help us find your mistress!” Angus calls.

Famhair, now up to the tops of Angus’ thighs with no signs of slowing his growth, barks and nuzzles a giggling Aidan before he rushes over to the horses, tail wagging and tongue lolling. Ian shakes his head at the dog’s antics but mounts Cain in silence; throwing Abel’s reins to his father. 

The sun is bright and the sky is blue; beautiful enough to abstain from conversation, something Ian prefers. In the silence his mind is free to wander to their arrival in the valley. Luck or God had them cross paths with Lord Bram that day, and seeing Castle Donnáin and meeting Lord Ichabod made it feel as if they could stop running and be happy, as a family.

Then Ian met Lady Abigail.

Lady Abigail.

She is so beautiful he can barely breathe in her presence, easily the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She’s firm of conviction; gentle and kind of heart; bright of mind, and honest of word. Literally perfect. She deserves nothing short of the entire world at her feet. But alas, he is only seventeen and Lady Abigail does not look at him as she does Lord Ichabod. Jealousy festers in his heart, and it manifests in unholy anger at the man who has been nothing but kind to him and his family.

Why must he be so noble? Doesn’t he know it makes it difficult to hate him?

Ian wants to care for Lady Abigail, wants to ensure what happiness he can. So he finds reasons to be in her presence. Brings her flowers for her apartment. Asks if her fireplace has enough wood. Anything to have her smile and talk to him. Even as he does it, guilt gnaws at Ian.

What would his mother and father say if they knew he coveted another’s wife?

After overhearing his parents talk at night, Ian found out about Lord Ichabod and Lady Abigail’s situation. They’re not even married! He’s taken a lovely bird and bound it in a cage to be available at his whim. Cut off from her family and home Lady Abigail obviously wilts, and even with friends the happiness only lasts so long.

What arrogance! 

Ian begins to wonder; perhaps he has a chance? He could steal her away and they could go wherever she wanted, even back to her clan. He could see her happy and healthy and they would have five children, four strapping boys with his height and one darling daughter to dote upon, a carbon copy of her stunning mother. He sees it so clearly upon closing his eyes, waking seems to be a chore.

Then, before he can work up the courage to suggest such a scandalous elopement, Ian has to watch Lady Abigail marry Lord Ichabod in tears; not that he blames her. How could she be happy when her light is being snuffed out? Ian wants to pull her aside, tell her he’d still take her anywhere she wishes to go as long as they could be together.

He doesn’t.

Then the impossible happens; Lord Ichabod leaves his bride the very next day. How he managed to pull himself from her embrace is impossible to consider--either way the man is gone. Ian thinks perhaps life can be better. He’ll have time to prove to Lady Abigail he is a worthy suitor.

But as time progresses, it becomes more and more difficult to ignore the obvious; she truly loves Lord Ichabod, and it’s like a stab to the heart. Lady Abigail waits for the cad almost every day before the castle facing the lane. Ian wants to shout and shake her; the scoundrel has left her. He’s found another jewel and he’s put it in another velvet lined box and Lady Abigail needs to move on.

Only the thought that his mother would slap the taste from his mouth keeps said mouth closed. Now Lady Abigail could be hurt or worse, and for whom? Lord Ichabod?

“Ay, you’re quiet today,” Angus says as the castle disappears behind them.

“Lot on me mind,” Ian says, watching as Famhair darts before the horses, barking at butterflies.

“Want to share, then?” Angus asks.

The words pile in his throat and Ian stews for a while longer before finally blurting, “when are we going to stop pretendin’ this marriage isn’t a farce?”

Angus’ eyes widen. 

“Where’d you get that idea, boy?” he yelps.

“Da, I’m not dumb. Lord Ichabod leaves the very next morning after his weddin’. How else could it be anything _but_ a sham?”

“That is none of our business,” Angus says. “We’re to do as we’re told and live _our_ lives, not theirs. And what do you ca-” Ian blushes under his father’s knowing gaze. 

“Oh, Ian,” Angus murmurs, and Ian feels his face grow hot. “She’s not for you, lad.”

“Must we talk about this?” Ian asks as they turn down the path that runs through the forest. 

It’s overgrown from use, but once travelled it’s fairly easy to discern the path to stay out of the woods.

“We do, if you continue to covet another’s wife.”

“Wife in name only,” Ian argues. 

“Da, he left ‘er the day after their weddin’,” he repeats. “How can that be a marriage?”

“We’re not talkin’ about this again, Ian,” Angus warns. “We’ve got a good life here.”

Ian sighs heavily. 

“I know, Da.”

“Then act it,” Angus snaps. “Your attitude will sour into disrespect and cause unnecessary problems; I won’t have it. Do you think Lord Ichabod would hesitate to get rid of the whole lot of us if you were to make his wife uncomfortable?” 

Ian, silent and sullen, looks unsure and Angus shakes his head. 

“If you have to consider, you don’t know nearly as much as you think.”

Before Ian can respond, Famhair darts into the woods, barking excitedly. Ian and Angus bring their horses to a stop, peering after the excited animal; Lady Abigail must have gone off the path inadvertently. They weave in between the trees until Dorcha steps out, chewing and looking at them interestedly, her saddle askew.

“Lady Crane?” Angus calls, looking pointedly at his son. “Lady Crane?”

Ian ignores his father and tries to breathe; what if Lady Abigail is injured and cannot answer? What if she’s dead? What if-

“Angus?”

Ian jumps down to search on foot, turning to the direction of her voice and rushing through the foliage. Only ten feet separated them from Lady Abigail, who rests at the bottom of a large tree in a partial clearing. Famhair nuzzles his large head in her lap, whining happily as she pets him.

“Lady Abigail, are ye hurt?” Ian asks, coming to kneel before her, blushing as he studiously tries to ignore the way her bosom is presented most pleasantly as she breathes. He looks for injuries but there don’t appear to be any. Lady Abigail’s face looks drawn, but still the loveliest he has ever seen. 

“Were ye thrown, milady?”

“Nay,” she shakes and ducks her head in embarrassment. “My stomach was too upset to continue. I had to take a rest, just a quick gathering of my bearings. Nature had other plans when I fell asleep at the base of this tree,” Lady Abigail says ruefully.

“Did you realize you were off the path?” Angus asks, bringing Cain, Abel, and Dorcha with him.

Abbie shook her head. 

“I wisna in too much of a hurry to move when I realized I couldna find my way back, so I just returned to this spot to rest while I figured out a plan. You two are a sight for sore eyes,” she murmurs gratefully. “Though you were nae my plan, I am most thankful you happened along.”

“It’s our pleasure, Lady Abigail,” Ian says, just thankful she’s safe and sound.

“I’m sure you think me foolish,” she says, ducking her head again and retreating beneath her hood.

“Ach, of course not, milady. You’ve never seen these paths, and it’s easy to get lost.” Angus looks around. “How does your stomach fare, milady?”

Abbie exhales and attempts to rise; Ian hastily jumps to his feet and helps her. 

“We shall see,” she says. 

“Thank you, Ian,” she murmurs, and moves to Dorcha.

“Allow me,” Ian says, his hands trembling as he gently lifts Abbie by the waist onto the horse.

“Oh! You tall people,” Abbie says breathlessly once she’s in the saddle.

Ian ducks his head at the compliment but he restrains his smile when he catches his father glaring at him. 

“Are ye alright up there, Lady Abigail?” he asks.

“We shall see,” she repeats, and presses a hand against her abdomen. “I fear I’ve wasted enough of your time.”

“Nonsense, Lady Crane,” Angus says. “Our time is your time.”

She’s not convinced, but says nothing as they depart through the trees toward the true path. They don’t get far before Abbie sways alarmingly in the saddle, and jerks on the reins for Dorcha to stop. 

“I must dismount,” she gasps, and Ian is at her side immediately, helping her down to the ground. She stumbles a few steps away to dry heave behind a tree.

Ian and Angus look at each other, but say nothing until Abbie straightens and moves back toward them.

Angus looks at her tenderly. 

“Lady Crane, you’re unwell.”

“I believe I made a mistake of departing without sustenance,” Abbie says, pulling off her glove to wipe the sweat from her face. “I will walk beside the horses.” 

“Nonsense, we will fetch the wagon. Ye won’t be able to make it back to the castle otherwise,” Ian says. “Isn’t that right, Da?”

Angus looks at his son and nods warily. 

“If you collapse on the way, Lord Ichabod and Maighread would never forgive me.”

Abbie glances down at Famhair, who’s nuzzling her still gloved hand. 

“I will defer to your good sense, considering at the moment I have none,” she murmurs.

“Ian will take Dorcha back to the castle and hitch her to the wagon and return, along with something to settle your stomach, aye?” Angus suggests.

“Thank you,” Abbie says. She pulls her hood down even further to avoid the brightness of the sun as her head begins to pound. “I will remain with Famhair until the two of you return.”

Angus shakes his head. 

“Milady, I cannot leave you here alone and unwell. I will watch over you, along with Famhair, so no harm comes to you while Ian goes to fetch the wagon.” He swears lowly. “Ach, no he can’t. I haven’t gotten around to fixing the hitch and you won’t know how to latch it without me. I’ll go and Ian will stay. Right, Ian?”

“I will protect her with my life,” Ian says passionately, and his heart begins beating wildly again when Lady Abigail’s ungloved hand touches his forearm. It looks so small against him, and he swallows inaudibly.

“Thank you, Ian, though let’s hope it willna come to that,” she says lowly.

Ian swallows again, still unable to speak, and forces himself to move away to grab Dorcha’s reins to give them to his father.

“Ian, make sure you look after the lady. Uphold the O’Leary name,” Angus mutters pointedly.

“Ach, Da. Go,” Ian says, and gently smacks Dorcha’s rump to get her following. He grabs Abel’s reins and ties them loosely around a fallen branch. 

“Would ye like to sit in the saddle?” Ian asks Abbie, unsure of what to do now.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“I do want to sit though,” she says, and glances around for ground that isn’t broken by roots.

“There should be somewhere soft to sit inside the trees,” Ian says, and offers his hand.

Abbie takes off her other glove and puts her hand in his. 

“Come, Famhair,” she calls, and the large puppy bounds from whatever had him interested to follow his mistress into the trees. Sure enough, some ways in there’s another clearing and it’s full of soft grass.

“Ye can rest here while we wait for my father to return,” Ian says, and helps Abbie onto the lush growth. “Though I’m afraid yer pretty dress’ll be ruined.”

Abbie tries to hide her yawn but can’t. 

“I dinna care about the dress,” she murmurs, and smiles when Famhair steps up and tries to nuzzle her face. 

“Why are you so big, Famhair? Soon I’ll be forced to call you traitor,” she chuckles as she scratches behind his ears. Another yawn practically climbs out of her body. 

“My apologies, Ian; you dinna mind if I close my eyes for a bit, do you?” Abbie asks as she adjusts her position to recline on the grass. Famhair immediately snuggles into her side. 

“Lady Abigail, I don’t think there’s anything ye could do that I would mind,” Ian says softly, watching as Abbie curls into Famhair and falls promptly to sleep.

~

Abbie rolls into the warmth at her side and smiles, barely awake. She hums happily, reveling in the feel of strong arms around her and the solid beat of the heart beneath her ear.

_“Abigail…”_

Abbie shakes her head and burrows into Ichabod’s chest. 

“Nay,” she murmurs. “Just give me a few more minutes. I have no desire to leave your arms.”

_“Abigail, please wake up.”_

Abbie shakes her head. 

“I shan’t, unless you give me a hundred kisses,” she mumbles, desperate for her husband’s warmth. “Why’d you leave me? Dinna…” 

Ian is frozen with an armful of Lady Abigail. She’d been tossing and turning in her sleep and Famhair has wiggled away; he thought if he just lay beside her it would calm her down. He hadn’t expected her to turn over and wrap her arms around him and nestle herself into his side.

Hesitantly his hand came down to her waist and he pressed his nose into her hair, inhaling as deep as he could, leaving him reeling. Ian realizes it would be so easy to just roll her over and kiss her awake. To see the delight on her face when she realizes it’s him. Ian touches the back of his hand to the satin of her –

“Ichabod,” she breathes, and his heart freezes. She’s literally calling for another in her sleep.

“Lady Abigail?” he whispers, close to her face as he dares. Up close she’s even more beautiful with long lashes and even skin as brown as he’s ever seen. Ian lifts his hand to brush away a stray dandelion wisp from her cheek and for some reason ends up leaving his hand there, enthralled as Lady Abigail nuzzles into his touch.

“Lady Abigail, ye must wak-”

Her eyes fly open and focus on Ian, who is remarkably closer than he had planned to be, their noses almost touching. 

“Ian?” she asks. “What are you doing?”

Ian swallows. 

“I love ye,” he blurts. “I know bein’ the wife of a servant isn’t much compared to a lord, but I will love ye so much, like ye deserve!”

Abbie closes her eyes and rolls out of Ian’s grasp to sit up properly. She doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep but at least her headache had receded. 

“Ian, I am already married,” she says gently.

“Ye don’t have to pretend, Lady Abigail. I know it’s a marriage in name only,” Ian says, rising to his feet. “Ye don’t have to be bound to a man who can tell ye he wants to spend the rest of his life with ye and then just leave without any word as to when he will return.”

Abbie clenches her jaw. 

“You’re speaking of things of which you know nothing,” she says. “And my marriage is nae in name only.”

“But-”

“I am almost ten years older than you and above all that I have listed, I am very much in love with my husband, Ichabod Crane,” Abbie says gently.

Ian swallows, his heart breaking. 

“Lady Abigail, I –”

“Crane,” Abbie says. “You will call me Lady Crane.”

Ian sees his chance evaporate into smoke and hangs his head. 

“Yes, milady,” he murmurs, his face hot with shame. 

“My father, he-” He tries again. “My father doesn’t –”

“Disna have to hear about this,” Abbie says. “We all make mistakes. Caught between the world of a child and the world of an adult, it can be hard to know where to step.”

A rush of relief floods Ian and he nods. 

“Aye,” is all he can say.

“It’s nae the end of the world but it will nae happen again, are we clear?” Abbie asks sternly.

Ian nods reluctantly, his face still red. 

“Aye,” he says.

Abbie nods, and sighs. 

“Where’s Famhair? Famhair!” she calls, and they both turn to see the oversized pup bound out of the foliage and bowl Abbie over with enthusiastic nuzzling. 

“Oh, you,” she shrieks and laughs before she’s able to wrestle the animal down for tummy rubs. 

“You’ll find someone, Ian,” Abbie says after a moment.

Ian looks away, and the silence remains until Angus returns.

~*~

The only sound in the room is Ainsley Stewart’s almost unholy enjoyment of the pheasant and carrots on his plate across the table. Zoe lifts the goblet to her lips to hide disgust. 

“Must ye, uncle?” she asks after a particularly zealous bit of bone sucking lands a spot of gravy beside her hand.

Stewart raises an eyebrow. 

“What has you in a mood?” he mutters between bites.

“Perhaps I dinna feel like watching ye stuff yer face, Uncle,” she says.

“I’m merely enjoying myself. If one disna stop to enjoy the good things before him, then what’s the point of all our plans?”

“ _Our_ plans, Uncle?” Zoe finishes her ale and signals for a refill.

Coira, barely thirteen, darts forward to replenish both her and her uncle’s drinks before moving away to join Morag, a few years older than Zoe, beside the serving table.

Stewart takes a swig from his tankard. 

“Aye, _ours_. We are family, are we nae?” he asks pointedly. Zoe says nothing. “We look out for each other, as I’m sure you remember.”

Zoe sighs loudly. 

“Is there a point ye’re trying to make?”

“I just want you to remember, is all.”

“Ye make sure I remember - at every turn,” she says. 

_Family_ , she thinks. _Just another word for a burden a woman is expected to bear without comment._

Stewart smiles. 

“Any progress with finding out the Mills girl’s location?”

“Ye’d be the first to know, Uncle,” she says.

“Would I?” Stewart uses his tongue to remove a bit of meat from between his teeth. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Zoe rolls her eyes. 

“Dinna get paranoid on me, Uncle.”

“Why have you been so quiet today?”

“I’m merely thinking,” Zoe murmurs.

Stewart tsks. 

“That’s bad for a young woman’s health,” he says, and chortles at his own half joke. “It’s been almost a fortnight; nae even a hint or clue as to her whereabouts?”

“He refuses to say,” she says. “I can only ask so many times before he grows suspicious.”

“He may never give up her location.” Stewart chuckles and takes a swallow of wine. 

“He will,” Zoe says.

“If he disna, we may have to make alternate plans,” he says.

Zoe’s eyes flit to the servants waiting in the corner. 

“Leave us,” she says, shooing them to the door. Both young women bob into curtsies then flee the room.

Stewart glares at his niece. 

“I wisna done,” he says.

“Will the world end afore ye’ll be required to refill yer own plate?” Zoe asks, and rises from her chair. 

She takes her uncle’s plate and refills it with roast and another pheasant before slamming it in front of him. 

“Heaven forbid we’re nae feeding ye enough,” she sneers.

“If you dinna have the fortitude to do what’s necessary I suggest you find some shepherd whose sole ambition is to double his herd and make you his brood mare,” he snaps nastily.

Zoe scoffs. 

“I have the fortitude, Uncle. What we dinna have is time.”

“Things are in motion, we merely have to wait for them to bear fruit,” Stewart reassures her.

“Ye’re pushing him too far; finding things he’s required to do to keep him from sneaking off,” Zoe says.

“We do what we must,” Stewart says slowly. “His father isnae yet at the point where he’ll demand Ichabod to reveal the Mills girl’s location. I work on him, reminding him how beneficial those tilling rights would be for our clan. That is something we can depend on; nae this marriage that may or may nae be valid. We could secure our future for the next ten years, easily.”

“That’s all well and good, Uncle, but Ichabod is becoming more and more despondent and he’s lashing out in a moody, childish manner. People are noticing.”

“I see no problem either way,” Stewart says. “Either Orrin will get him in line or put him aside.”

“No good, Uncle; I am nae marrying the deposed son of a chief,” Zoe hisses.

“Then what about Joseph? Ranulf and I think we can dry him out long enough to parade him around and gather support. He’s nephew to Orrin and of the Crane line, though he disna carry the name. You’ll still live to be the chief’s wife.”

She shakes her head. 

“Let me make sure I’m clear; I want Ichabod,” Zoe says. “I have put in enough work and I can feel it; we’re close to his breaking point.”

“Then find out where he’s hid the Mills girl,” Stewart says. “That’s a large enough bargaining chip for both our plans.”

Zoe sighs heavily. 

“I know her eyes sparkle like honey in the sunlight, but he will nae give up her location. He won’t tell me directly so I need a way to find out.”

“Maybe you’re nae as clever as you’d like to think,” Stewart says.

“Ye better hope I am,” Zoe mutters. “In addition to complaining of being forced to do busywork, Ichabod complains of being followed when he’s tried to sneak away to her. D’ye know anything about that?””

“Aye, but Diarmad said they lost interest over a week ago.”

Zoe mulls the information over. 

“I trust Lord Dunnet as far as I can throw him,” she says. “How sound is his information? Can ye trust it?”

Stewart chuckles. 

“I dinna have to. I know where he’s buried his bodies and I hold his reins. Besides, it’s nae just Diarmad – independently verified sources report Reynolds men in the villages of outlying clans, near the MacPherson and Iverson lands. It’s likely Ichabod is no longer a person of interest.”

Zoe’s smile widens. 

“Well, we canna have that, can we?”

Stewart chuckles as he catches her plan. He wipes his greasy hands on his napkin and sits back in his chair. 

“We’ll get things started in the morning.”

Zoe shakes her head. 

“Nay. I dinna want someone to reveal themselves and spook Ichabod again. To put this plan into place we’ll need to be very careful. I need to speak to one of the Reynolds or someone close to them personally.”

“We can send someone to do that,” Stewart says.

“The fewer people involved the better.” Zoe sighs. “Really, Uncle Ainsley, how ye’ve gotten this far I’ll never know.”

“The young think they’ve invented the world,” Stewart says blandly. “Perhaps in your voracious social climbing you shoudna forget those you’ve used as stepping stones.”

Zoe is unimpressed. 

“Let me know when to plan my shopping trip,” she says pointedly as she grabs her goblet and leaves her chair. 

“Sweet dreams, Uncle Ainsley,” she says, and raises her glass before leaving the room. 

~*~

_Abbie snuggles into the warmth at her back and hums when a large, calloused hand slides up her thigh._

_“_ Mo gràdh _,” Ichabod whispers into her ear, swirling his tongue in the shell of her ear._

_Abbie shudders softly and sighs as his hand reaches the apex of her thighs, sliding between to feel the gathering moisture in her curls._

_“Ichabod,” she breathes. “You’re back?”_

_“I’m back, love. Did you miss me?” Ichabod pulls her back against him, the length of his nude body like a furnace against the back of hers._

_“Yes,” Abbie says, unashamed at how her voice wavers. “Where have you been?”_

_She tries to open her eyes but they won’t move, and she cries out when Ichabod delves a finger inside and gently rubs against her button._

_She throws her leg over his, arching her back as his other hand comes down to cup her breast, pulling gently at her pebbled peak. Abbie wants to turn and see him but he’s got her hemmed in such a way that all she can do is gasp as she feels the blunt head of his cock bump against her entrance._

_“Ichabod?” she calls out as he slides his head against her lips, parting her just a little._

_“You’re so wet for me and only me,” Ichabod groans in her ear, and sinks in slowly, not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt._

_Abbie’s mouth is open and she’s groaning at the sensation of being filled, both body and heart. They lay there, joined, while she attempts to acclimate to his girth. Impatience makes him flex inside of her and Abbie gasps, squeezing around him._

_“My husband, be gentle,” she whimpers as he withdraws, choking out a moan when he moves his hips forward._

_He sets a slow, tender stroke that has her toes curling, sliding almost all the way out to push forward firmly, rubbing inside of her on each upstroke. Abbie reaches back, grabbing for whatever skin she can reach as Ichabod proves he knows how to take her apart._

_Ichabod takes her hands in his and holds them over her head, rolling her partially onto her stomach and widening her legs. The stroke is deeper now as he grinds against her, one of his hands dropping down to squeeze her abundant ass reverently._

_Abbie still can’t open her eyes, no matter how much she wants to see her husband’s face. The deprivation makes the desire coil tighter within her, making her pant and keen as their rocking movement drags her sensitive nipples against the sheets. She’s so close she’s losing the rhythm, and Ichabod’s hands feel like they’re all over her body as he begins to swell within her._

_Her eyes open on their own and immediately she sees a shadow on the wall – there’s someone in the room._

_Abbie blinks, her brain lust-addled as she tries to figure out who it is. The shadow raises what can only be a dagger and she tries to cry out to warn Ichabod, but finds she has no voice._

_“Oh,_ mo gràdh _, I will make love to you for the rest of my life,” Ichabod moans into her ear and-_ –

Abbie screams, scrambling away from the unknown assailant. 

The last of the dream departs as she slides off the bed, tumbling with a grunt to the rug. Her heart is beating so hard she can feel it in her scalp and in her fingertips, and the danger that had felt so real a moment ago recedes like water in a cup with a hole in the bottom.

She remains on the floor until she catches her breath, then shakily pulls herself up and back onto the bed, just to immediately dart from it and to the chamber pot to empty the meager contents of her stomach. When all that’s left are dry heaves, Abbie remains prostrate on the stone, hoping the coolness will calm her jumping stomach and frantic nerves.

The sun has risen before Abbie feels like peeling herself from the floor. She feels weak and even water burns when she tries to drink it, but today she will not return to bed. Today she’s going to make it out of this valley and find her husband.

After that, she’s not sure what she’ll do, but she’ll figure it out on the way.

When Siobhan comes an hour later Abbie’s already dressed and only needs assistance pulling her thick hair into a single braid so it can fit beneath the hood of her dress. When Siobhan gives her the options for breakfast Abbie declines, and hastily tells the young woman her lack of appetite is due to her nerves, nothing more.

Siobhan says nothing as she curtseys, and practically flies back to the kitchens to tell her ma Lady Abigail declined breakfast.

Maighread dries her hand on her dishcloth and sighs. 

“I thought we’d turned a road with dinner last night,” she says. “How does she expect to travel on an empty stomach?”

“She’s not thinking with her brain, wife. She’s thinking with her heart,” Angus mutters from the kitchen table.

Ian stuffs the rest of his sausage and egg sandwich into his mouth and leaves the table. 

“Gonna get the horses together,” he mutters, and doesn’t look back.

Angus gives his wife a pointed look and finishes his tea. 

“What should we do?”

“We can’t tell her she can’t go,” Maighread says as she takes the sausage from Aidan’s hand before he can give more to Famhair. 

“If ye’re not hungry ye can get down,” she tells her son firmly, returning his meat when he blinks up at her and holds out his hand.

“I know that.”

“Ye’ll have to go with her,” she says.

Angus glances at his wife and daughter with an eyebrow raised. 

“I’ll have to what?”

“Ye’ll have to go with her, Da,” Siobhan says eagerly. “Ye can make sure she rests and doesn’t overdo it. Besides, ye said there were some things we needed from the market, right?”

“…Aye,” Angus murmurs.

“There ye go,” Maighread says with a nod. “Perfect excuse for ye to go.”

“I don’t know if she’ll like this,” Angus says.

“But Lady Abigail is so nice she’s not goin’ to tell ye to return; not when ye tell her ye have things to get for the household,” Siobhan points out.

“Ach, I hate the subterfuge,” Angus says.

“Aye, don’t we all. But we do what we must,” Maighread says, and catches a glimpse of Famhair, now tall enough to rest his paws on the bench, stand on his hind legs to reach Aidan’s face to lick it clean, the little boy giggling silently. 

“Both of ye creatures down from the table right this instant! Go play, the both of ye,” Maighread sighs loudly as she helps Aidan down from the bench and kisses his forehead before he and Famhair take off out the back servant’s entrance to the kitchens.

Maighread cleans the kitchens, prepares for lunch and packs her husband and Lady Crane a bit of nosh for the road. She’s done tucking it away into separate baskets when Lady Crane herself comes down in a regal blue dress with umber trim and hood and mustard lining. Her face looks worse than Maighread remembers but she’s clutching her riding gloves in one hand resolutely.

She fights the urge to pick the girl up and put her back to bed herself, and holds her tongue. 

“Lady Crane, I thought I’d make ye somethin’ to eat on the road. A chicken pot pie, an apple turnover and a potato mash, buttered and salted. How’s that sound?”

Lady Crane looks vaguely ill as she presses her hand to the side of her abdomen absently. 

“I think I’ll just wait until I arrive at a tavern,” she murmurs. “I just wanted to leave a bit of coin, for if Lord Ichabod and I dinna return before you need to get more supplies.”

Maighread accepts a handful of Scottish crown and blinks at the amount. 

“This should last the year,” she murmurs. “Surely ye won’t be gone that long?”

Lady Crane smiles. 

“Emergencies or anything else we didna consider. Better safe than sorry.”

“Aye,” Maighread says lowly. “Are ye sure ye don’t want to take the food with ye?”

“Nay, and the basket will knock against the horse and I dinna want that. Thank you, Maighread for everything you do, I really mean it. It’s been a joy ever since you and your family agreed to work here.”

Maighread looks at her strangely. 

“Why wouldn’t we, milady? Yer husband offered us proper wages and reasonable work. We were only holdin’ out for one of those,” she admits, and smiles when Lady Crane does. “Oh, we were blessed when Lord Bram found us for we were mere days from runnin’ out of food and now, with you refusin’ to eat, we eat like nobility!”

Abbie bites her lips to keep from smiling, but it sneaks past. 

“Well, I’m glad someone gets to.”

“Aye. Let me accompany ye to the stables; my Angus is gettin’ ready to depart, too.”

Abbie tries not to be suspicious as Maighread leads her out of the kitchens, one of the pails of food swinging in her other hand. Once the women reach the stables, Ian and Angus rise in greeting. 

“Ay, woman, you make me want to break into this now,” Angus says as he takes the food and gives it a good whiff.

“Lady Crane, I’ve got Cain dressed and ready for yer departure,” Ian says, not quite looking her in the eye.

Abbie doesn’t push it, and graciously accepts his assistance into the saddle. Immediately her stomach decides it doesn’t like being so far from the ground and she has to swallow hard to keep from heaving. 

“Thank you, Ian,” she murmurs, and concentrates on breathing through her nose.

“Lady Crane, did Maighread tell ye I’ll be riding out with ye? I cannot fix the wheel to the cart permanently, so I’ll have to get a new one, along with a few supplies.”

Abbie forces herself to smile. 

“I dinna mind a bit of company then,” she says. “As long as you dinna convince me to…” 

She takes a deep breath. 

“As long as you’re nae trying to convince me to stay behind.”

“Milady, I would never presume,” Angus says, seriously. “Do you wish to leave now?”

“Aye; I plan to be out of the valley before sundown,” Abbie says, and raises her hood of her dress and adjusts her riding gloves before accepting the reins from Ian. The sunlight is bothering her eyes again but it’s not so bad within the darkness of her hood. She adjusts the blue of her dress against the ink black of Cain beneath her before urging the beast on with a nudge of her heel.

The short walk out of the stables clanks around in Abbie’s head. A headache like fingers of lightning has taken hold of her skull and makes her hunch forward, breathing deeply. It recedes just enough for her to blink back tears and Cain picks up the pace into an easy trot, causing Abbie’s nausea to bubble to the surface at yet another inconvenient time.

She can hear the cart on the gravel behind her and concentrates on that rather than the roiling of her stomach. She tenses her grip on the reins, feeling the supple leather through her gloves. Any sensation Abbie can use to ignore her stomach, the better. Eventually they crest the castle and are on the dirt road that will lead up and out of the valley but not even that can distract her from the bile rising at the back of her throat.

She pulls on Cain’s reins to slow him down, but even at a walk the swaying makes her stomach revolt. 

Abbie has to get down, and get down _now_. She struggles to remove a foot from the stirrup and half slides, half falls off of Cain and to the ground. Dimly she can hear shouting, and someone moves her hood back but everything looks like shadows, bleeding into each other until the darkness pushes everything away and she loses consciousness.

~

When Abbie wakes there’s a cool cloth upon her head, and a small, slightly sticky hand in hers. On her other side there’s a cold nose pressing against her wrist. Abbie removes the compress and squints; her bedmates consist of Aidan on one side and Famhair on the other, both deeply asleep as only children and puppies can achieve.

Abbie takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, thankful there is only the barest of tightening in her abdomen. She glances down and realizes she’s been dressed in a soft nightgown and the usual heavy blanket has been removed from the bed and replaced with an extremely airy linen one.

The act of kindness brings a prickle of tears to her eyes and Abbie uses the cloth to wipe them away almost angrily. It seems that everything’s making her feel things she doesn’t wish to feel; happy or sad, angry or consumed with lust… 

Pulled around by her emotions. Now she’s let them get the best of her and they’ve landed her in bed, like some sort of highborn fainting lady that hasn’t done a day’s work in her life.

Lady Lori Mills would be ashamed.

It’s that thought that spurs Abbie to try to sit up. Her arms shake so badly she’s forced to lay back down to gather her strength. Aidan turns over, cuddling closer and rubbing his cherub face against Abbie’s arm. This, too, brings Abbie to tears, and she pulls the small child closer and kisses the top of his mop of curls, crying silently. Eventually what little energy she’d accrued washes away and she falls asleep again, clutching a still sleeping Aidan to her chest.

~

When Abbie wakes again she’s alone in the bed, but Maighread is in a chair next to it, knitting something with the speed born of expertise. She glances up at Abbie and blinks, straightening and smiling. 

“Ach, there ye go, love. Would ye like somethin’ to drink?”

Abbie swallows. 

“Yes, please,” she croaks, and winces at the sound of her own voice.

Maighread nods and quickly crosses the room to fill a cup with cool, crisp water. Abbie accepts the help to sit up against the headboard and drinks until the cup’s taken away. 

“Ye don’t want to vomit again,” Maighread murmurs, patting Abbie’s hand gently.

Abbie nods, and leans back against the headboard. It’s clearly dark now; the windows and curtains thrown open and the bright moon a sliver in the sky.

“Do ye think ye could eat?” Maighread asks.

Suddenly Abbie is starving. 

“I think so,” she says. “How could I have slept the entire day away and still be tired?” she asks.

Maighread’s expression turns curious. 

“It’s been an emotional time for ye. Sometimes emotion can wear us out faster and more thoroughly than any physical activity.”

Abbie looks away, blinking back tears. 

“I canna seem to stop crying today,” she says, angrily wiping her face.

“Milady, would ye mind if I asked ye a few questions? They’re mighty personal,” Maighread says.

Abbie sniffs warily. 

“Nay, please ask.”

“Have ye had yer monthly bleed since we’ve been in the valley?” she asks.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“I havena had it since _I_ came to the valley,” she admits. “I’ve always been irregular and during times of extreme stress it tends to just go away. But this is the longest it’s ever been in between.”

Maighread nods. 

“Do ye think ye could be with child?”

Abbie laughs a bit hysterically but then trails off. 

“I canna be,” she says. “I mean, it’s highly unlikely.”

“The marriage wasn’t consummated?” Maighread asks gently.

Abbie flushes. 

“That… was most assuredly nae a problem,” she murmurs. “It’s just we only had the evening and the morning together. Should it nae take longer?”

Maighread chuckles. 

“It only takes one time, child,” she says knowingly. “I had one slip up and that’s how my lovely Aidan is here. He was unexpected but I wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Abbie is shaking her head. 

“But I canna be pregnant,” she whispers. “So quickly?” 

Her hand drifts down to her stomach. 

“I thought I’d lost my appetite because I missed him.”

“In part, probably. Where the heart goes the body surely follows, but when ye wake do ye feel nausea? Is yer stomach often upset?”

“My stomach is almost always upset,” Abbie admits. “And sometimes I vomit and it’s nae morning.”

“How did Siobhan miss it?” Maighread asks aloud.

“Dinna blame her; I emptied the chamber pot so she wouldna worry. I didna want to concern anyone; I just thought I was being overly emotional.”

“Are yer breasts tender?”

Abbie huffs and shakes her head. 

“I’m used to tenderness before my bleed but for the past three weeks I dinna want anything against them.” She looks slightly embarrassed. 

“I’ve taken my gown off at night because it would rub and I couldna sleep,” she whispers.

“Aye,” Maighread says with a cough to cover her laugh. “I’ve been in that position as well.” 

The matron sighs and reaches for Abbie’s hand. 

“We should send for a midwife. Someone to look ye over so ye know for sure.”

“But you already know, do you nae?” Abbie asks.

“Aye, I strongly suspect,” Maighread says. “I’ve seen it enough and I’ve experienced it enough to know the signs. But I wouldn’t ever suggest ye believe me over a proper midwife.”

“It’s nae that. I think you know of what you speak, considering your experience in this matter. Especially compared to mine.” Abbie looks down at her stomach and shakes her head. “I just canna imagine I’m--I dinna _feel_ pregnant.”

“Have ye ever been pregnant before?” Maighread asks.

“…Nay. So how would I know,” Abbie finishes the unspoken question.

Maighread squeezes her hand. 

“Aye; besides, the feeling ye think ye’ll have is not going to happen for some time yet, when it’s not all throwing up and such nonsense.”

Abbie breathes deeply as she squeezes Maighread’s hand and blinks back tears.

“Are ye alright, milady?” Maighread takes both of Abbie’s hands in hers.

_No_ , Abbie thinks. She wants her mother and sister to tell her she’ll be alright. She wants Ichabod to be next to her, scared with her. Everything they’d hoped for is happening and nothing is going to plan.

“I’m fine,” Abbie says after a moment. “The tears have begun again.”

Maighread nods. 

“Aye, that’ll happen at the drop of a hat as well. It’s fine, ye’ll just have to let them out. In the mean time I’ll bring ye supper. We can’t have ye skipping any more meals,” she warns.

“Nothing ever sounds good when my stomach is hurting,” Abbie says.

“We’ll find something that doesn’t hurt yer stomach. Every woman has one or two things they absolutely cannot live without when they’re carrying a babe. We’ll find yers,” Maighread promises.

Abbie nods, and reluctantly releases her hands.

“We’re going to build ye back up, aye, Lady Crane? Get ye back on yer feet for the little ‘un. Ye just rest now.”

Abbie sighs and nods. 

“Maighread,” she calls as the matron makes the door. “Can you send Siobhan up? I’d like to have her bring me a few books from the library.”

“Aye, Milady,” Maighread says, and leaves Abbie alone in her big bed with her thoughts.

_No, nae alone. Nae anymore_ , Abbie considers. 

She presses her hands to her stomach and tries to imagine someone in there, someone baking to be a human – a bit of her and a bit of Ichabod tossed together to be one person.

She looks around the empty room, imagining it filled with all the people she’d want to tell. Her parents and Jenny, Katrina and Bram. Daniel, she thinks darkly. Ichabod’s parents and Ichabod, at her side, proudly announcing she’s with child.

“I’m going to have a baby,” she says aloud, with only the walls to hear her.

~*~

The stalls of Tarland are packed with people buying, selling, and trading wares of all types. Ichabod and Bram move easily within them, as Ichabod searches for a gift for Abbie.

He doesn’t think there’s any gift on earth that can keep Abbie from being absolutely furious with him and Ichabod finds that he can’t blame her. Still he continues on, hoping to find some trinket that will represent how profoundly sorry he is to have stayed away so long.

“What do you think of this one?” he asks.

Bram glances down at the leather bound tome in Ichabod’s hand and shrugs a shoulder. 

“It’s fine,” he says dismissively, returning to people-watching. A pretty blonde flashes a smile at him and he struggles to return it at half-mast.

“Maybe I’ll find what I’m looking for at the next booth,” Ichabod says as he returns the book to the seller with a nod.

“Ye’re nae goin’ ta find it at the next booth,” Bram says.

“You’ve seen their offerings?” Ichabod asks, and pauses when Bram does not follow.

“Ye’re lookin’ for somethin’ ta make up for the fact that ye’ve been gone more than a month instead of two days. There’s nothin’ in this world ye’ll be able to buy that will make up for that time.”

Ichabod sighs, and his shoulders drop. 

“You’re nae helping,” he says.

“There’s naught ta help,” Bram retorts.

“I canna return empty-handed. I want something to show she’s been in my thoughts the entire time.”

“So pick somethin’ nice, somethin’ Abbie would like, and quit stallin’,” Bram murmurs, tugging Ichabod to the booth at the end of the lane. There are fewer people examining the wares but the quality of goods is definitely a step above what they’d seen prior.

Ichabod eyes his friend while he takes in the spread. 

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” he asks.

Bram works his jaw. 

“I’m nae in a bad mood,” he says carefully. “Leather reminds me of Katrina. She’d be here with her family in one of these booths and I would take up her time and flirt with her while her mother turns her nose up at me.” 

He sighs heavily. 

“I miss her.”

Ichabod feels like a selfish fool. 

“I’m sorry, Bram; you dinna have to accompany me. You can post up at the tavern if you want, drinks on me.”

“Can ye nae take forever?” Bram mutters, and knocks Ichabod with his shoulder.

“Aye, but I want to have the right gift. I dinna want my wife angry at me longer than she has to be,” Ichabod says, and pauses. 

“Bram, my _wife_ ,” he says with wonder.

Bram chuckles and rolls his eyes, leaning against the stall as Ichabod continues to search for the perfect gift. Bored, Bram scans the crowd and catches a glimpse of long, dark hair. 

“Is that Zoe?” he mutters, surprised.

Ichabod turns and frowns. 

“Where?” he asks, turning back to the two journals in his hands. “How much time would it take you to brand initials into the back of this?” he asks of an ornately embellished leather volume.

“I can ‘ave it ready in a quarter hour,” the booth keeper says. “What would ye like branded?”

“GAC,” Ichabod says proudly.

Bram wanders in the direction he saw the woman go, something prickling in the back of his mind. Zoe knew they were searching for a gift for Abbie. If Zoe were coming to Tarland, why wouldn’t she just ride with him and Ichabod? Not even six months prior she would clamor to join Ichabod anywhere he went, and would have attempted to bribe Bram to stay home.

He turns down the alley that opens into the square and glances around until he catches his quarry again. Bram hurries across the quad and quickly closes in, grasping her by the elbow and turning her round.

“Who the hell are you?” the unfamiliar brunette asks, yanking her arm from Bram’s grasp.

“Beggin’ yer pardon,” Bram says hastily. “I thought ye were someone I knew.”

“I think that’s somethin’ we can arrange,” she says, looking Bram up and down appreciatively.

“Ach, if only I had the time,” he says wistfully, chucking her under the chin.

“Pity. May yer day be as fine as ye look,” she purrs, and continues on her way.

Bram sighs and feels a pang. She doesn’t have red hair, but that can’t be helped. Perhaps he should turn his sights to a darker beauty, he thinks, and immediately the knowing grin of Lady Jennifer Mills bubbles to the surface of his mind. He shakes his head.

_Should a man dream?_

~*~

Ichabod watches the ale fills his tankard and sighs as he hears the doors to his chambers open and shut. 

“Bram, if you’re coming to tell me I should apologize, save your breath.”

“Ye wouldna be remiss if ye did.”

Ichabod turns and grunts. 

“Zoe, what do you want?”

“Since when do I have to want something?” she asks, still leaning against the door.

“Because _everyone_ wants something,” Ichabod mutters.

“Ichabod, ye’re the shining light of Clan Crane; why would people nae seek ye out? Yer people need yer wisdom.” Zoe smiles as the compliment softens his surly expression.

“Kind words, and there may be some crumb of truth within them, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to deal with my father. He disna seem to understand I have – ”

“Duties, yes. To your wife?” Zoe finally reveals the green glass bottle she’d been hiding behind her skirts. “I’ve managed to liberate a bottle of Aqua vitae from Uncle Ainsley.” 

She laughs at the face Ichabod makes. 

“Don’t,” she warns playfully.

“It’s probably poisoned,” he says mournfully.

“Ichabod.”

“What? That man disna like me,” Ichabod says. “Which suits me because I canna stand him.”

Zoe hums noncommittally and crosses the room to fill a goblet halfway and another tankard completely with the clear, strong-smelling liquid. She takes Ichabod’s ale and replaces it, hiding her smile while he takes a careful sip. Immediately his eyes widen and his face reddens and he looks scandalized.

“That -” Ichabod coughs, “ - could clean silver.”

“It can,” Zoe says, and sips her own. The burn down her throat makes her cough just slightly. “So are we going to talk about yer behavior?”

Ichabod glares over the rim of his cup. 

“I wisna aware I answered to you,” he rumbles.

“How many times had ye refilled yer cup before I arrived?” she asks warily.

“Two. Three,” Ichabod admits. “Does it matter?”

“I dinna intend to admonish you like some whelp of a boy-”

“Then stop.” 

He takes a pointed swallow and winces at the burn. Ichabod takes another, longer pull and enjoys feeling his frustration and anger burn away more and more, leaving a heavy nothingness in his chest.

“D’ye wish to talk about it?”

“All I can do is talk,” Ichabod mutters. “I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of being told to wait.”

Zoe shakes her head and takes a longer sip of her drink. 

“Ye’ve changed,” she sniffs. “And nae for the better.”

Ichabod glares. 

“That’s what happens when a man is deprived of his wife,” he growls.

Zoe merely looks at him. 

“Ichabod Crane, ye hardly know her,” she says.

“I know her plenty,” he reassures her. “Enough to know one of her favorite colors is yellow, though she disna wear the color often.”

Zoe shrugs a shoulder. 

“A bit of information one would tell their friend. Ye know I am fond of red but rarely do I wear it.”

“I know she’s fiercely protective of children.”

She scoffs. 

“Is that nae supposed to be the hallmark of our sex?”

“I know my Abbie speaks four languages, but the most beautiful thing she can say is my name whilst I’m inside her.” Ichabod ignores the burn of his drink while he watches with no small pleasure, the way the smirk drops from Zoe’s face.

Zoe’s expression hardens. 

“I will overlook yer rudeness,” she says.

“Please do.”

“Once upon a time ye wouldna let anything stand in yer way.”

Ichabod nods slowly, draining the rest of the tankard and barely registering the burn. 

“This isnae us trying to sneak off to Tarland,” he says heavily.

“Nay, it’s not. And look at what your ingenuity wrought.”

Ichabod rises and moves to fill his tankard again but feels the effects of the Aqua vitae and sets his cup down instead. 

Both he and Zoe are startled when the doors to Ichabod’s apartment are thrown open. Bram, livid and clutching a piece of parchment in his fist, strides through. 

“Have ye read this?” he demands, thrusting it in front of Ichabod.

Ichabod jerks away and takes the paper with a wince, unrolling and reading it quickly. 

“Tell them to have someone else handle it, you’re conducting business for me.”

Bram stares at his friend. 

“Why else would I be here, Ichabod, if that hadna worked? Look at the signature! The orders are from yer father.”

“My father knows you’re my steward,” Ichabod mutters. “He canna command you without first speaking to me.”

“Aye,” Bram says, obviously.

“This is a new level of disrespect.”

“Well, hold on; maybe we’re nae seeing this from all perspectives,” Zoe says.

Bram seems to realize she’s in the room for the first time. 

“We’re bein’ tasked ta join the men travelin’ ta the southern coast ta intercept our ships and cargo.”

“But ye and Ichabod do that every year, no?” she asks.

“We do, but it’s nae compulsory; we take the trip for pleasure. This is requirin’ our presence.” Bram pretends to throw his orders into the fire. “A week we dinna have time for.”

“Then I’ll go.”

Both men turn, Bram looking skeptical and Ichabod stricken. 

“You’d do that for me,” he asks, taking a step toward Zoe.

She smiles warmly at him and takes his hand before squeezing it. 

“Ichabod Crane, there isnae much I wouldna do for ye.”

“Ach,” he says, turning and snatching his hand out of her grasp. “If something were to happen to you I dinna know what I’d do,” he says. 

“I couldna live knowing I put you in harm’s way.”

Zoe’s smile is tight. She had been so close. 

“Then what are ye going to do, confront your father?”

Ichabod raises a finger to object, then breaks into a big smile. 

“That sounds absolutely brilliant,” he says before turning on his heel and marching out of his apartment.

Bram and Zoe spare each other a horrified glance before scrambling to follow. 

“Ichabod, perhaps when ye’ve slept off yer drink ye could talk to your father,” Bram says.

“No time like the present,” Ichabod says darkly, his anger propelling him forward with his naturally long gait. Bram has no trouble narrowing the distance but Zoe has to run to keep up with both men.

By the time they reach Lord Orrin’s cabinet, Ichabod has worked himself into a fine, chilled wrath. He spares one glance at the men posted at the door and they immediately open to admit him, Bram and Zoe barely skating through.

The antechamber is empty and all three immediately proceed into the main meeting room where Orrin and his council sit, deciding clan business.

Orrin glances up at his son’s noisy entrance and raises an eyebrow. 

“He lives,” he says dryly.

“Father, can you spare a moment of your time?” Ichabod asks through clenched teeth.

Orrin returns to the paper he’s reading and sighs. 

“Perhaps you should request an audience,” he murmurs, and Lord Kerr chuckles into his goblet.

Ichabod’s face burns and he straightens to his full height. 

“I wish to speak to you about a sensitive subject, Father. It would be in our best interest to be alone.”

Orrin pauses. 

“Best interest,” he repeats, reclining in his chair as he regards his son again. “ _Our_ best interests are the clan’s best interests. The council is more than happy to assist, isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

Lords Stewart, Kerr, and Dunnet nod immediately, obviously eager to know Ichabod’s reason for the interruption.

“Father,” Ichabod tries again, but Orrin raises his hand.

“Once upon a time you would be at this table; weighin’ in on clan business, ensurin’ our interests for the coming season… gettin’ our people prepared for a possibly harsh winter.” Orrin throws the paper onto the table, perturbed. “Instead I hear you’re yellin’ at the laborers. That you’re distracted an’ obsessed with tryin’ to sneak away.”

Ichabod swallows his words and takes a deep breath. 

“I need to bring my wife home.” 

He spares a glance at Lord Dunnet, who is choking on his wine and getting whacked on the back by Lord Kerr.

“Young Ichabod, you have married?” Lord Stewart asks, making a great show of his surprise and dismay, immediately causing his compatriots to react.

Orrin and Ichabod stare at each other, neither moving nor appearing to breathe.

“…Lord Orrin?” Lord Kerr asks. “Is this true?”

“I demand – ” Lord Dunnet pauses when Orrin raises his hand.

“You _demand_ , Diarmad?” Orrin asks quietly, still staring back at Ichabod.

Lord Dunnet clears his throat and tries again. 

“Lord Orrin, we’ve been gettin’ letters of interest from as far as Clan Ogilvy! Lord Adair has put out subtle inquiries regardin’ his daughter, Rossalyn. By rights of marriage, the Frasers could no longer charge for wharf rights, easily savin’ us a hundred crown a year.”

Orrin continues to stare at his son. 

“Leave us,” he commands the council.

“My – my lord,” Lord Stewart begins, but Ichabod turns from his father’s gaze to level his own at the man.

“I do believe you were given an order, Lord Stewart,” Ichabod grounds out.

Stewart recoils under Ichabod’s glare and hastily gathers his papers, and with the other two men, leaves the room.

Orrin glances over at Zoe and Bram, hovering near the back of the chamber. 

“I assume your friends are already aware of your… predicament,” he murmurs.

Ichabod pauses. 

“Aye,” he says. “So you’ve decided.”

Orrin stares at his son. 

“I have,” he says. “I am puttin’ clan before you, Ichabod. That is my duty.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Ichabod says. “We’re already wed; let me bring her home so she can help us make her clan see reason. I’ll confess all to Lord Ezra.”

“An’ what?” Orrin blinks. “He says, ‘oh, thank you for kidnappin’ me daughter! I’ve harbored a dislike for you an’ yours since the time of my father but this insult I’ll ignore.’ What world do you live in, boy, for surely it isnae this one?”

“Father-”

“Where is she, Ichabod? I’ll have men go an’ retrieve her,” Orrin offers. “We can have her returned by the morrow an’ put this foolishness to bed.”

Ichabod shakes his head. 

“Nay,” he says. “I refuse.”

“I dinna care if you refuse or nae. I _will_ find that girl an’ she will be returned to her clan. The questions that remain are how long will you be able to hold out? How will long will _she_ remain, waitin’ for your return? How long will she love you before it sours into anger an’ she leaves on her own? Do you really want to hurt her like that?”

Ichabod’s blood runs cold. 

“I willnae tell you where she is, Father.”

“Eventually it willna matter. I’ll send our men out to find her an’ it will only be a question of _when_ nae if.” There’s a ghost of a smile on Orrin’s face. 

“I do what’s best for my clan. I can bear your unhappiness if it means that our people, the ones we’ve sworn to look after, are sheltered, clothed, fed an’ protected. That is what it means to sit in _this chair_ ,” Orrin thunders, rising from his seat. “We make the choices that are difficult. Our happiness disna come before the clan!”

“That’s your problem, Father. You’re thinking short term. You see the gifts the Mills have given; you hunger for the tilling rights they’ve offered. Five years. What is five years compared to generations? We must trust the Mills to be reasonable just as I trust you to be reasonable.”

“Where is she, Ichabod?” Orrin asks. “Tell me an’ I’ll consider lettin’ you see her one more time before she’s returned.”

“This is useless,” Ichabod says. “You’re refusing to listen to reason.”

“Says my drunk son, cryin’ about his useless wife.” Orrin sighs and shakes his head. 

“One day you’ll thank me. You’ll marry someone who will support you an’ give you strong sons. Let go of this childish frenzy an’ show your clan you can lead with their best interests at the forefront.”

Ichabod takes a step toward his father, his expression impassive. 

“Please understand this; I will succeed you before ever you learn of her location.” Ichabod stalks from the room, leaving Bram and Zoe frozen in shock and uncertainty. 

“Make sure your master sobers up,” Orrin says to Bram, and stares until Bram bows stiffly and flees the room. 

Leaving Zoe.

Who is edging toward the door. 

“Milord,” she murmurs, a mere few feet from freedom.

“I’ve always liked you, Lady Corinth.”

She pauses, and tries to keep the confusion from her face. 

“I live to serve, milord,” she says.

Orrin nods knowingly. 

“A man _needs_ a good woman by his side to help him be the best person he can be.” Orrin gestures to the chair her uncle vacated. “Sit with me.”

Curiosity more than fear propels Zoe across the room to settle into the plush chair next to Lord Orrin. She can’t help but revel in the feel of power, one seat from the throne. Finally, she’s in the chief’s cabinet, where she belongs. 

“Yer words are kind; I have only ever endeavored to be the best of friends for Ichabod,” she says.

“With no hope it would turn into somethin’ more?” Orrin asks shrewdly. He snaps his fingers and a servant appears with a pitcher of juice and two goblets.

Zoe accepts the goblet and drinks to cover her nerves, thankful it is only chilled apricot juice. She cannot believe her good fortune. But like all things too good to be true this emerging situation has to be handled delicately. Zoe clears her throat. 

“May I be honest, milord?”

“Please.”

Zoe puts her goblet down and sighs. 

“I know Ichabod is required to marry for the good of the clan, but I had hoped – ” She looks away, blushing.

Orrin chuckles. 

“That he would be in such a position that it wouldna be necessary. That perhaps he could marry for love.”

Zoe nods, looking up at Lord Orrin hopefully. 

“So ye understand?” she pleads.

“Oh, my child. Of course.” Orrin taps his finger on the table next to his goblet and nods. 

“That is the wish we have for our children, for them to marry for love. An’ you are such a lovely young woman,” he says.

Zoe ducks her head. 

“Thank ye, milord.”

“I’m sure you would produce many sons.”

Zoe blushes and tries to hide a demure smile. 

“If only God were willing,” she whispers.

Orrin swishes the juice around his goblet, considering. 

“God helps those who help themselves, Lady Corinth.”

Zoe catches Lord Orrin’s meaning, but feigns confusion. 

“Milord?”

“He canna keep the Mills girl.” Orrin shakes his head.

“Ichabod disna see it that way.”

“Let’s be clear: I’ve removed my son’s feelings an’ opinions from this equation,” Orrin says. “He must do as I say.”

Zoe nods. 

“Aye, milord; I understand.”

“I’m glad. I need those close to Ichabod to make him understand as well. Are you in a position to do so?”

Zoe crosses her legs and leans back in the chair. 

“I would like to think so, milord.”

“The location of the Mills girl,” Orrin says. “Has he told you?”

She sighs in irritation. 

“The one thing he has nae told me. Ichabod trusts no one with that secret,” Zoe says. “I have already tried.”

Orrin nods. 

“Truly?” he asks.

Zoe frowns. 

“Milord?”

“I find the proper motivation works wonders. What motivates you, Lady Corinth?”

“The continued good fortune of Clan Crane, of course,” she says.

“Of course,” Orrin repeats. “But what do you want for yourself?”

Zoe’s heart is pounding. If this is played too hard she’ll ruin her chance, and so she considers her words carefully. 

“I have… always felt I could do my best for our people by Ichabod’s side. I wish to produce an heir worthy of the Crane name.”

Orrin raises his goblet. 

“A fine goal.” he murmurs. “For the good of our people.”

“For the good of our people,” she echoes, and takes a long drink.

~*~

Bram should have known.

He’s known Ichabod as long as he’s known what a friend is, and Ichabod is never a quiet drunk unless he’s planning something.

So when Bram knocks on the doors to his apartments and hears nothing, he really hopes Ichabod is just sleeping it off. Dread wells in his stomach as he pushes his way through into the solar and into the bedroom.

The bed is neatly made; no sign of Ichabod.

Bram swears a blue streak into the air and turns on his heel. There are only two places Ichabod would go – back to his father to repeal the decision or straight to Abbie. He stalks to Lord Orrin’s cabinet and stops halfway down the hall; there are no guards posted at the door; there’s no one inside.

Bram’s stomach drops.

He rushes to the stables, sparing no one a glance until he almost runs into Zoe. He grabs her just in time to keep her from tumbling head over feet down the stairs, and winces at the close call. 

“Sorry, lass,” he mutters. “I can’t seem to see what’s in front of me. I’m tryin’ ta find Ichabod. Do ye know where he is? He’s nae in his room.”

Zoe catches her breath and looks at him strangely. 

“He’s headed to Craichidh; I assume to blow off some steam,” she says.

That doesn’t sit well with Bram; if Ichabod wanted to blow off steam he would take his axe to the wood pile and split logs until his arms burned. 

“He _said_ he was goin’ ta Craichidh?”

Zoe nods.

“Alright.” Bram starts down the steps considering his options when he stops. “Ach, Zoe!”

Zoe ducks back into the stairwell. 

“Aye, Bram.”

“Speaking of seeing things, did I see ye in Tarland the other day?”

Zoe crosses her arms. 

“Tarland? I dinna go there unless I have to.”

“Aye, but I would’ve swore I saw ye when Ichabod and I were there the other day.”

“When did you two go to Tarland? I thought ye were going to Craichidh,” she scoffs.

Bram shrugs a shoulder. 

“They didna have anythin’ Ichabod wanted. Are we nae allowed to go to Tarland?”

“What? No. I’m just wondering what this is all about, that’s all.”

“Just thought I saw ye.”

Zoe shrugs a shoulder. 

“Must’ve been my twin,” she says dismissively. 

“I’ve been summoned to Lady Aislinn,” Zoe says, and with a brief nod continues on her way. She doesn’t breathe until she hears Bram’s heavy footfalls on the stairs, growing fainter. 

It’s only then she releases the breath she’s holding, feeling slightly lightheaded. Zoe thought she had planned the perfect meeting; Ichabod and Bram would be leagues away with the expectation they’d be distracted for hours. 

If Bram had been any more observant or worse, had actually found her - Zoe shudders and refuses to continue the thought. She’s come too far to let someone else’s nosiness stop her. From now on, no one would see her coming.

~*~

There’s no doubt in his mind that Ichabod went to Abbie. If Bram were to leave now he’d get in trouble as well. It takes only a second’s thought to have him grumbling and pulling his saddle from the wall. 

“This is all yer fault,” he tells Ruby.

Ruby doesn’t agree.

Bram dresses Ruby then stops at the armory, where he grabs his sword, a few daggers and a pike. He really hopes he doesn’t need them, but Bram would rather prepare for the worst.

_At least there’s a half moon,_ he muses as he steers Ruby out into the field. The landscape is illuminated just enough to keep Bram from running Ruby into a hole. He keeps an eye out for Ichabod, but sees no sign of him. He lets that be a good thing for now; if he’d come across Ichabod’s body –

Bram doesn’t let himself continue that thought.

Ichabod made it to the castle and he’s waiting for him, still slightly drunk. Abbie will be sure to chew both ears off once he sobers, and maybe by then Bram will have calmed down to enjoy his friend’s discomfort.

Bram concentrates on the pounding of Ruby’s feet on the ground, and remains attentive of his surroundings; avoiding heavy foliage and villages. 

After some time, the sun rises and with it, Bram’s mood. Visibility is greatly increased and he has the confidence to urge Ruby faster, all the while constantly searching for a sign of being followed or worse, of Ichabod.

_He’s with Abbie, happy and rested and I am going ta punch him in his smirkin’ face when I see him,_ Bram thinks. 

The sun inches toward midpoint and finally Bram crosses into Duhnorum Valley. He lets Ruby slow to a brisk trot, knowing the last leg of their journey is still a few hours yet. This isn’t the longest ride Bram has completed in one go, but time seems to stretch and thin with his emotions. The uncertainty of everything eats away at Bram; he’s defying his chief, he’s defying his orders.

No need to dwell upon it now; he’s thrown his lot in with Ichabod, yet again. Bram just prays he’s able to get them out once more.

It’s a couple of hours to sundown when Bram finally turns the corner and Castle Donnáin looms before him. He takes the path that winds around the castle and ties Ruby at the stable doors, jumping off and running into the kitchens.

Mrs. O’Leary gasps and nearly drops the chicken she’s de-feathering. 

“Oh, Lord Bram! Ye scared the wits out of me,” she says.

“Apologies, ma’am. Where is Lord Ichabod?”

She looks confused. 

“He’s not here,” she says. “He isn’t with ye?”

Bram shakes his head, moving through the kitchens and up into the castle. He runs into Ian, again just grabbing the teen before he toppled over. 

“Where’s yer father?” Bram asks, sparing no pleasantries.

Ian jerks his thumb over his shoulder. 

“He was re-hangin’ a tapestry in the library. Should be finished by now; is there somethin’ wrong?”

Bram nods. 

“Aye, have ye seen Lord Ichabod?”

Ian shakes his head. 

“Not since he left.”

“Ian - Oh, Lord Bram! Have you and Lord Ichabod returned?” Angus asks as he comes into the corridor carrying his toolbox.

“I had hoped Lord Ichabod had beaten me here,” Bram says. “He departed before me and I’m afraid somethin’ may have happened.”

“Has anyone told Lady Crane?” Ian asks.

“Nay, and I dinna want ta do so until we know what’s happened ta Ichabod. There’s no need ta worry her if there isnae a problem.”

“What would worry whom?”

The three men turn to find Abbie at the end of the corridor, staring at them curiously. She catches sight of Bram and her eyes light up, glancing around for Ichabod as she comes closer.

“Have you brought my husband?” She asks, with the barest quiver.

Bram drops to his knee before her and takes her hand. 

“He left Carrann Dail before me; I know he was on his way here.”

“So where is he?” Abbie asks, clutching his hands harder as she looks at the pike strapped to his back. “Is he in danger? Dinna lie to me, Bram Bowie,” she says.

“He very well may be,” Bram admits.

Abbie nods and Bram notices how thin she’s become since he’d last seen her. 

“Are ye alright, Abbie?” he asks, searching her face for some discernible illness.

“I will be fine when you find my husband,” Abbie says. “Angus, Ian, will you accompany Bram in his search?”

“Aye, Lady Crane,” Angus bows, nudging Ian into nodding as well. “We won’t return until we find him.”

“Ye have my word,” Bram says, and rises to his feet. “Come, men. We have two hours of daylight left.” 

They rush to the stables, barely sparing a glance at Maighread. Images of Ichabod hurt or worse dance through Bram’s mind until he feels sick to his stomach. He wrestles the fear down as he throws his leg over a barely rested Ruby.

_Ye better not be dead, Ichabod Crane,_ he thinks. _Or Abbie will kill ye herself._


	10. One Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are the folly of men.

Abbie dips her spoon into the broth and swallows it down; it’s still warm, surprisingly, considering it’s taken her almost twenty minutes to down half the bowl. It’s silent in the kitchens, where she’s elected to eat with Maighread and Siobhan. Siobhan seems as uninterested in her chicken as Abbie is in her soup; Maighread is staring at Abbie’s profile, glancing down every time Abbie looks over. 

She finally sighs and puts her spoon down.

“Maighread, do I have something on my face?” she asks.

Maighread shakes her head. 

“No, milady,” she says, and hesitates. “It’s just that I’m worried.”

“Angus and Ian willna be in any danger; Bram would make sure to send them off before that became a problem,” Abbie reassures her. 

Maighread shakes her head. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about ye and Lord Ichabod.”

The fear is now voiced aloud, and Abbie’s heart drops into her stomach at the words. 

“It’s only been a day,” she says, picking up her spoon. She stirs the broth again and finally gives up and reaches for a yeast roll. 

“Aye,” Maighread says quietly. 

Abbie bites into the roll aggressively, as if she can take her emotional turmoil out on the bread itself. She swallows and immediately regrets it and bolts from the table, startling Siobhan.

Maighread can only watch with concern and pity as Abbie flees.

~*~

It’s not as if Abbie’s trying to actively avoid Maighread. 

Well, not at first.

At first Maighread is welcome company; it keeps Abbie’s mind off useless _what ifs_. But suddenly they don’t have anything to talk about – Maighread’s worried about her husband and son and Abbie’s worried about her husband and friend. 

The type of worry that tends to stay the tongue. 

In the silence Maighread begins to watch Abbie with a peculiar look on her face; a mix of concern and trepidation that Abbie can’t stand.

Abbie begins to check the matron isn’t in the room before she comes in, and hurries to another location if she hears Maighread coming. When stuck, Abbie sits through what feels like almost overwhelming concern. Intellectually, she can appreciate the sentiment, but realistically… It’s not helping anything.

Abbie flees to the master apartment to avoid the scrutiny, and ends up laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the many ways she plans on killing Ichabod when he arrives unscathed and handsome and insufferable.

Abbie jerks awake at the sound of insistent knocking at her door. The room is bathed in gold light – the sun is on its way to setting and Abbie doesn’t know when she fell asleep but she’s fully clothed and feels overly warm and cranky.

“Enter,” she barks, wincing at the headache bubbling at the back of her head and she briefly wonders if she’ll be ill when Siobhan practically falls into the room, breathing heavily.

Abbie takes one look and leaps from the bed, running past Siobhan down the stairs as she holds her skirts to keep from tripping on the stone. She hits the main hall and turns, suddenly unsure where to go. 

“Ichabod?” Abbie calls out, the frantic worry she’s been beating back finally breaking through. 

“Ichabod!”

She runs through the Great Hall and down the corridor on the other side, skidding to a stop when Bram and Angus come around the corner with Ichabod supported between them. His shirt is torn and bloody, bright red against stark white – his head is bobbing back and forth under the jostle of being carried awkwardly.

The men pause when they see Abbie at the end of the hallway, her hands covering her mouth and eyes wide. She gathers herself and blinks away the tears. 

“We need to get him to bed. Can you take him to his room?” she asks. 

“Aye,” Bram grunts. 

So many questions threaten to tumble from her lips and leap from her throat but Abbie closes her eyes and presses herself against the wall so that Angus and Bram can cart Ichabod through, and while they’re making progress to the master apartments Abbie darts into the kitchens where Maighread has already begun boiling water.

_God, make me a stone._

Abbie puts all emotion on hold, she has to - all non-essential functions are a distraction as she gathers towels, herbs, and oils. She doesn’t know what she’ll need but she doesn’t want to have to leave Ichabod’s side to get it. 

Holding everything tightly to hide the way her hands shake, Abbie rushes back upstairs, unaware she’s holding her breath until she sees Ichabod on the bed with a big gash on his chest. She lets loose a sob – it looks hideous and gaping and the raw redness on the surrounding skin hints at possible infection. 

Bram tears away what little of Ichabod’s shirt clings and starts as Abbie sways a little. 

“Little sister, are ye alright?” he asks, his own hands red with Ichabod’s blood.

Abbie nods and tries to breathe through her mouth as she comes closer. Ichabod’s face is unlined and serene, as if he’s merely asleep and she wants to shake him, to curse him for scaring her and for being hurt. 

Instead she climbs onto the bed to get closer, heedless of her gown on the now bloodied duvet.

“Lady Crane…” Angus begins, but Abbie raises her hand. 

“I’ll need a knife, the sharper the better. This wound has infected flesh that needs to be cut away so we can clean and sew him closed.”

“Lady Crane,” Maighread says, shoving her husband and Bram aside. She has the rest of the supplies Abbie requires on a tray; ether, a curved needle, and thread. 

Abbie pushes Ichabod’s hair from his face and cups his cheek gently. He tries to rouse, moving into her touch. 

“Give me the ether,” she says, and prays for a steady hand. 

In the end it takes only two hours. 

Two hours to cut away the flesh that had begun to rot. To clean off the dried blood, dirt and twigs from the wound and to stitch it closed. Siobhan carries away the bloodied cloths without comment while Maighread assists Abbie. The last bandage is wrapped and tightly pinned, and Bram, who doesn’t move from the bedside, lifts Ichabod’s limp form so they can change the bedclothes. 

When they’re done, Bram returns Ichabod where he belongs, next to where Abbie lays her head. The sun has long since fled the sky and Siobhan is blowing out candles that aren’t needed for light. 

“Thank you,” Abbie murmurs to Maighread, who clutches her hand and peers into her eyes. 

“Milady, would ye like me to send Siobhan with some sustenance? Some more broth?”

Abbie’s expression tightens into a grimace. 

“Maighread, I’ll be fine. And if I have any more broth I think my body shall rebel. Please make sure Bram gets well and truly fed.” She glances around. “I didna realize I didna see Ian when this all began – where is he? Is he alright?”

Maighread nods as she’s joined by her husband. 

“I had him tendin’ to his little brother and keeping Famhair away, is all,” Angus says.

“Well, good.” Abbie nods and can’t think of anything else to stall with. “Thank you again, and we’ll see you in the morning,” she whispers, watching as Bram falls heavily into the chair next to the bed and stares at Ichabod. 

“Aye,” Maighread says, and the O’Learys file out of the room nearly silently, taking the last of the soiled linens and cloths with them. 

Bram looks up as Abbie closes the door behind them, leaning against it with a sigh. His eyes immediately fall to the splotches of blood and bodily fluids on the front of her gown. 

“Ye look a fright,” he says with a grin, but it drops off as she shakes her head and stalks over to him. 

“You should see the other guy,” she mutters, struggling for the smile Bram seems to find so easily. “Do you know what happened?” 

Bram sobers. 

“Nay. We found Cadeyrn wandering without a rider on the other side of the valley. If Ichabod’s great big foot hadna been sticking out inta the road we might nae have seen him.”

“Was the side of the valley he was found a different side than he normally enters by?”

“Aye. It’s a whole day’s ride out of the way.”

Abbie nods. 

“He was being followed,” she murmurs.

“Aye,” Bram says. “He would’ve done his best nae ta lead them here.”

“But he was obviously attacked. It disna make any sense; why attack him if they dinna know where I am? I have to assume that, otherwise Donnáin would be overrun.” 

Abbie takes a deep breath and her knees buckle just a little.

Immediately Bram eases Abbie into the chair he was just sitting in. 

“Gonna tell me what’s wrong, Abbie?”

Abbie looks up at his obvious concern and she wants to tell him, but she looks at her husband’s form and swallows the urge. 

“I’m fine, just a little tired,” she says. Bram doesn’t look like he believes her but she squeezes his forearm and musters half a smile.

 _Ichabod deserves to know first_ , she thinks. 

“Deft work with the needle,” Bram says. “I hadna seen anyone work that fast with flesh.”

“When you stop thinking of it as flesh and just think of it as fabric you stop hesitating,” Abbie says. 

“How many times have ye done this?” he asks.

“Once or twice. I’ll tell you about it one day but nae tonight. Go get yourself some food; I know Maighread has a spread for all that went to retrieve Ichabod.”

“What about ye?” Bram asks. “Have ye eaten?”

“Aye,” she lies. “I just want to go to bed now.”

Bram nods. 

“I’ll leave ye ta it,” he says. 

Abbie nods. 

“Tomorrow, you’ll tell me what kept you both so long?” she asks, Bram halfway to the door.

“Aye,” he says, anticipating that conversation. Hopefully Ichabod wakes by then. 

Abbie watches Bram close the door behind him and sighs in the silent room. She’s alone with Ichabod for the first time in close to a moon and a fortnight. She doesn’t know how to feel even now because all she can do is stare at the rise and fall of the bandage binding his chest and keeping her stitching closed. The whole room smells like heather even though the windows have been thrown open, the warm night breeze causing the candles to flicker.

She intends on sitting next to the bed the entire night to wait for sign of fever, but Abbie’s body feels like iron and with clumsy fingers she gets out of her clothes and into a nightgown. Abbie looks at the chair and the expanse of bed next to Ichabod and climbs in beside him, taking his hand in hers as she positions herself carefully next to him.

She’ll take a short nap; Siobhan has replenished her book selection from the library and upon waking Abbie can sit and read while monitoring Ichabod for fever. A solid plan that leaves out a very pertinent point – 

Abbie is beyond exhausted.

Finally, with her body sensing Ichabod is near, she relaxes completely and falls into a dreamless sleep. 

~

_Anger, trepidation, and longing thunder through Ichabod’s veins as he pushes Cadeyrn as fast as he dares._

_Abbie is at the end of the lane, waiting for him with her arms wide open, smiling._

_For him._

_Ichabod nudges his horse faster but gets no closer._

_“Ichabod?” Abbie asks. “I willna stay forever.”_

_“Please,_ mo gràdh _, I’m coming,” he shouts, not moving an inch. Ichabod catches a glint of steel from the corner of his eye and pulls his sword just as faceless men surround him, wearing the Mills tartan._

_“Abbie, no!” he screams, and clashes swords with the specter closest to him. Ichabod’s chest burns and he’s falling, falling…_

~

Abbie groans and turns away from the heat radiating all along her right side, startling awake when her foot hits heated flesh. Immediately the events of hours before come rushing back and she scrambles over to touch Ichabod’s face and neck.

He’s burning.

Abbie grabs her robe and rushes downstairs as quickly as she dares, tying the garment to preserve what dignity she can while calling for help. 

“Maighread, Maighread,” she screams, running down the hallway to the kitchens.

She loses her footing at the top of the stairs, tumbling into a completely surprised Bram. 

“Oh,” Abbie says as she realizes she’s no longer falling. She clutches Bram tightly and closes her eyes to keep the room from spinning. 

“ _Piuthar bheag_ , what’s wrong?” Bram asks, adjusting Abbie in his hold. 

“Ichabod burns with fever,” she murmurs, her head resting on his shoulder. Abbie still feels dizzy but pats Bram’s cheek so he’ll put her down. “I’ve got to get feverfew tea going and I’ll need ice from the ice house – Maighread!”

“Aye, milady,” Maighread says, looking worried as Bram puts Abbie down. “Is everything okay?”

Abbie shakes her head. 

“Lord Ichabod has developed a fever. We need to break it as quickly as possible. Do you have any feverfew?”

“Aye,” Maighread says. “I’ll put a pot on and we’ll begin with the compresses after we’ve fetched some ice. Would ye like any breakfast?” she asks.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“I’ll take a bit of tea,” she says. “And some bread,” she adds petulantly, conceding to Maighread’s expression. 

“Aye,” the matron says reluctantly. “Please be careful, milady; we cannot afford to have ye break your neck just now,” Maighread says pointedly. 

Abbie nods minutely, ignoring Bram’s stare. 

“I should go change,” she murmurs, glancing down at her robe and bedclothes. “I dinna know what I was thinking.”

“Ye were thinkin’ ye wanted ta save yer husband’s life,” Bram says simply. “ _Piuthar bheag_ , ye’d tell me if ye were ill, aye?”

Abbie rolls her eyes but she doesn’t turn in time to keep her smile from Bram. 

“Why must you call me that?” she asks.

“Because you are. And dinna change the subject,” he says as he follows her back up the steps. “Somethin’s off, I can tell.”

Abbie adjusts her clothes self-consciously. 

“Just stop putting your nose where it disna belong,” she murmurs. “We must concentrate on Ichabod right now.”

Bram narrows his eyes, but says nothing. 

~*~

_It’s dark when Ichabod opens his eyes. He’s in his apartments in Carrann Dail, in the solar with Bram and Zoe. Something is missing._

_“What’s missing?” he asks aloud._

_Zoe shakes her head._

_“We’re still deciding how to announce our engagement,” she says, fingering the ornate ruby necklace at her neck._

_Ichabod shakes his head._

_“We’re engaged?” he asks._

_“Aye,” Bram says, rising to slap a hearty hand on his back. “Didna think ye had it in ye,” he bellows._

_Ichabod shakes Abraham off as he stumbles into a chair._

_“This isnae making any sense. I married Abbie.”_

_Zoe and Bram roar with laughter._

_“Ye mean the woman ye left to rot in a castle?” Zoe asks._

_“I didna mean to,” Ichabod says. “I couldna get back because people were following me. They wanted to know where she was to –”_

_“To what, return her to her family?” Bram asks. “Very unfair, right, Zoe?”_

_“Just downright wrong,” Zoe chimes in. “But ye dinna have to worry about that anymore, Ichabod.”_

_“Why, is she here?” Ichabod tries to jump to his feet but finds he’s bound by invisible hands to his chair. “Where is she? I must know.”_

_Zoe shrugs her shoulder and rises to sit on Ichabod’s lap._

_“Yer father found her and returned her to her clan over a moon ago.”_

_Ichabod twists and doesn’t move an inch._

_“I dinna love you, Zoe. I love Abbie.”_

_“Abbie disna love ye,” she says sweetly, cupping Ichabod’s cheek. “She hates ye because ye took her and ye left her. Like some object ye could buy and set aside. Why would she feel anything but disdain for ye? Why would she nae want to kill ye?”_

_Ichabod swallows, and glances down at the blade protruding from his chest._

_“Zoe… what have you done?”_

_Zoe blinks._

_“I’m just removing yer heart. It will be so much easier to live yer life without this pesky thing,” she says, and begins sawing haphazardly._

_“Dinna worry,” she coos. “It’ll all be over soon.”_

Ichabod screams, but it comes out a weak gurgle. He’s on fire it feels like; his entire existence is in flames. Respite comes from two small hands on his face, and he leans into them, desperate for relief. 

What feels like eons later a cool cloth is placed on his brow and neck and immediately his body begins to unknot as the chill attempts to settle into his muscles. 

His chest hurts and his joints feel as if they’ve been filled with lead. Any attempt to move and Ichabod is met with his body’s flat out refusal. He tries to struggle but he has no energy, and Ichabod slowly sinks back into the blackness. 

~

_It’s somewhere between day and night. The weak sunlight turns the forest air pink and gold and Ichabod’s without his horse on an unnamed road. There isn’t anyone in sight so he walks._

_He walks and walks until he turns a corner and sees a wee lass in the middle of the road, facing away from him. Ichabod squints and moves forward until he can’t anymore. He doesn’t have to though; he recognizes her form._

_“Abbie? Abbie!” Ichabod excitedly tries to move his feet but they stay still with not even a twitch._

_She turns, a smile on her face so beautiful, so brilliant that Ichabod pitches forward, suddenly able to move again. He runs to her and finds another barrier, less than a foot thick, keeping him from touching her. Greedily Ichabod devours her face, her form, anything he can see while he strains against what keeps them apart._

_“Abbie, you waited for me,” he says._

_Abbie shakes her head and turns from him with her arms crossed._

_“I tried,” she says._

_“Ach, I know,” Ichabod says, falling to his knees to look into her eyes. “Please forgive me.”_

_“Why should I? Why marry me if you were just going to leave me?”_

_Ichabod shakes his head, reaching for her but finding nothing but mist. Abbie’s just out of his reach, dressed in a plain white dress far below her station. Her hair is unbound and blowing in a breeze he doesn’t personally feel, and her beautiful dark eyes are filled with sadness._

_Sadness he put there._

_“Abbie, I didna mean to leave you,” Ichabod says, practically sobbing._

_Abbie merely drops her head and wails. The sounds pierce Ichabod’s soul and he feels physical blows with every cry._

_“I wish I had never met you, Ichabod Crane,” she wails, and the shadow behind her parts and multiplies into three men._

_The three who follow him._

_Ichabod goes to pull his sword but it isn’t on his hip or at his back. He hasn’t his pike or his dagger. He is without a weapon. Still Ichabod readies his fists as the men fail to dismount, riding around he and Abbie in circles, jeering them with the cold accent of the north._

_“You canna have her,” Ichabod screams, and launches himself at the legs of one of the horses. Ichabod, rider, and beast all fall to the ground. He’s thrown to the ground in front of Abbie but this time she does not look at him._

Ichabod cracks open an eye with a groan; his body feels aflame and all he wants is to fall into the nearest loch and cool off. He means to stand and go but his body doesn’t respond. A cool cloth at his forehead stills his clumsy flailing and he sinks back into the inky black.

~

_Her dress is no longer white or plain, but black and regally appointed with pearls patterned across her bodice. Her hair is up in glistening coils as a pearl circlet crosses her forehead and she looks down at him, imperiously._

_“He canna have me?” she asks as Daniel steps forward to engulf her tiny hand in his._

_“The arrogance,” Daniel sneers, his circlet and robes matching Abbie’s. “She is mine and I will have cause to overrun your lands and annihilate your people. No clan will take in any from Clan Crane for fear of what I have done to you will be visited upon their people. And you will fade from this Earth – you, your people and your history and it will be as if you never were.”_

_Ichabod stares dully at Abbie, who turns her beautiful face up to peer at her husband proudly._

_The wind whips away any words he tries to scream, and the glint of the axe –_

Ichabod opens his eyes with a start, waiting for the rest of the blow. A moment goes by, then another, and he realizes he’s staring up at a ceiling instead of the night sky. Relief courses through his veins and his muscles relax now that the threat is gone. There’s a dull throb in his chest, and the skin there feels a little tight but he can move his arms and legs just a little, which gives him a bit of cheer.

A soft snore has Ichabod turning his head as best he can, and his heart feels as if it stops when his eyes land on Abbie. She’s curled in the chair beside the bed, a cloth in one hand, almost dangling from her fingers. Her head is bent at what has to be an uncomfortable angle and she’s fully dressed. It’s some time at night, Ichabod’s sure of it; why isn’t she sleeping, too?

_Because she’s looking after you, you ungrateful clod._

The miniscule movement he’s able to achieve leaves Ichabod’s head spinning, and he closes his eyes, just for a moment he swears, but when they open again he can tell it’s morning around the cloth that’s been placed over his eyes. The snore is back and Ichabod lifts the cloth just enough to verify its Abbie in the same chair, in a different dress. The book she must have fallen asleep reading lays tented across her front, and it’s the spine that prickles Ichabod’s sluggish memory. 

_Complaynte of a Lovers Lyfe._

A smile tugs at his mouth as Ichabod remembers the tome in his father’s hands, reading to his mother when he and Callum were supposed to be asleep. Orrin would stop reading and catch sight of them because Callum, or maybe Ichabod, would jostle the other and giggle, giving themselves away.

A particularly loud snore wakes Abbie and Ichabod quickly puts the cloth down, trying to even his breathing as he strains to hear what Abbie is doing. He hears the rasp of the paper as the book is closed, and the slide of leather against wood; Abbie placing it on the end table next to the bed. 

Ichabod catches the rustle of her skirts as she moves forward, and the gentle scent of her body wafts to his nose. It takes everything he has to not pull her onto the bed with him. Vestiges of his dreams come forth like half-formed shadows and Ichabod wonders if Abbie would appreciate his touch at all. 

It’s been over a moon since they’ve laid eyes on each other – Ichabod has seen relationships sour when husband and wife have spent everyday together. To not see each other at all? To leave after one night of lovemaking? Does that make a marriage?

Ichabod has no answers.

So he remains still, and begs for the darkness to consume him again, but it’s merely sleep that pushes reality away.

~*~

Bram knocks softly before letting himself in. Of course Abbie is asleep in the chair beside the bed, a book threatening to slide from her hands as she sits and waits for Ichabod to be released from the fever’s clutches. He sighs and removes the book from her hands like he’s done a few times before and doesn’t jump when she starts awake.

“Bram,” she says, her voice a croak. “Did you nae think to knock?”

“I did, _piuthar bheag,_ ye just didna hear me,” he murmurs, glancing at Ichabod as Abbie fights to keep her yawn small behind her hand. 

“His color looks better,” Bram says. “He should wake soon.”

“Aye,” Abbie murmurs. “I just wonder when.”

“Ye didna eat supper,” Bram says, and Abbie blinks, suddenly more awake.

“I didna feel like eating,” she says. “It happens.”

“Aye, ta the ill.” Bram crouches beside the chair and puts his hand over Abbie’s. “Ye told me ye’d tell me if ye were sick,” he says.

Abbie looks at him evenly. 

“Aye,” she says softly. “Aye, Bram; I’m nae sick,” she says, and leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Dinna worry about me.”

“I gotta,” he mutters, closing his eyes at the touch of her lips against his forehead. “Ye’re the only family I got.”

Abbie clutches Bram’s head to her chest and places another kiss across his forehead. 

“I’ve never had a brother before, you’ll have to tell me if I’m doing it right,” she murmurs.

“Aye,” Bram says with a sniff, trying to remember the last time he’d been hugged so sweetly since he left Katrina with her family. 

“Well, enough of that,” he says, his voice choked with emotion as he pretends he can’t stand Abbie’s touch a moment longer. 

“Maybe yer husband could do with a bit of yer lovin’?” He sniffs. “I know it does a world of difference ta me.”

Abbie’s eyes well but the tears don’t fall as she cups Bram’s cheek and nods. 

“Maybe you’re right. I’m going to turn in; can you tell Maighread I willna need anything else tonight?” 

“Aye,” Bram says, and takes Abbie’s hands and presses a kiss to her knuckles before leaving the room.

Abbie stares at the closed door a moment more before letting her gaze return to the bed, and to Ichabod. 

“You just refuse to return to me,” she says with a sigh. “Your wound heals clean and the redness is fading. We’ll be able to remove the stitching soon. I’ve done a good job; some of my best. So tell me, what keeps you sleeping, my husband?” she asks.

Abbie pulls herself from the chair that she sleeps in more than her own bed, and marvels at how little energy she has and how quickly it’s expended lately. She recalls various wives of the clan, having just announced they are with child, and the ways they slowed in the beginning months. 

They would yawn early in the day and their doting husbands would come retrieve them from the mills or from where they’d fallen asleep carding wool or like Iona, who fell asleep while working a loom, with the shuttle still in her hand.

She’ll never chuckle about them again, Abbie swears. The remainder of her energy she devotes to divesting herself of clothing, thankful as she pulls on her nightgown that her nipples – while still sensitive – are no longer as tender and painful. 

Abbie catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and sighs. She can already see changes in her body that weren’t there before; isn’t it too soon for her breasts to be growing as they are? Soon she’ll be unable to tie her bodices all the way. Her hands flutter to her stomach and turning this way and that she wonders if there’s any change to what feels still mostly flat. 

_Ichabod’s going to wonder what he returned to at this rate_ , Abbie thinks. She climbs into bed carefully and sits, watching the bandage over his chest rise and fall. 

“Are you going to come back to me?” she asks aloud. 

No response. 

Abbie doesn’t expect one but is still hurt when she’s met with silence. She climbs beneath the sheets and lays on her side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She wants to stay this way, keep herself closed off, but she knows sometime in the night her body will turn her until she’s pressing against Ichabod’s side. 

Abbie wants to scream. Wants to hit Ichabod’s still form and demand that he wake so she can ask him what he was thinking leaving her for so long. Then she wouldn’t let him say anything, she’d just keep hitting him and hitting him until he felt half of what Abbie’s been forced to feel while he’s been away.

That still wouldn’t be enough. She’d get her sword from Glendhu and she’d hack Ichabod to little bits, then even smaller bits. Then she’d put those pieces in a barrel and light the barrel on fire. 

Abbie chuckles aloud at the mental image she conjures, and turns to look at Ichabod’s profile. 

“Why do I miss you?” she asks. “I miss you so much and I have so much to tell you but I canna because you willna wake.” Abbie sniffles and wipes away a stray tear as she shuffles closer. 

“Ach, Ichabod Crane if you dinna come back to me I dinna know what I’ll do,” she murmurs against his cheek, falling into slumber in the very next breath. 

What she doesn’t see is Ichabod’s eyes are wide open; his expression stricken. Does he dare to hope? Abbie sounds as if… as if she could possibly love him. Suddenly he feels like a cad; avoiding her well-deserved wrath this last day, when he could have been sitting up and dealing with where he stood in her heart like a man. 

Nay, Ichabod Crane is a coward of the highest order. 

He shifts to pull Abbie closer, the pull in his chest just a dull ache as the stitching moves. Ichabod’s unsure how long he’s been abed, but he knows it’s high time he stops running from his wife. 

Abbie left the candle burning and in the flickering light Ichabod sees her serene and beautiful face. He presses a kiss to her lips, a quick peck, and then another and another. She does not stir. 

“I’m here, _mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs. “I am returned to you. Do with me what you will.”

Abbie slumbers on.

Ichabod’s unsure when he closes his eyes again, but he wakes to find the room is dark save the beginning of the sunrise beyond the window. Suddenly the urge to relieve himself has him sliding from out of Abbie’s arms and to the chamber pot. He’s a little woozy still but Ichabod welcomes the sensation of being on his feet for the first time in…

Ichabod realizes he doesn’t know how long he’s been abed. 

Once he’s relieved himself, Ichabod attempts to unwind the bandage without pulling at his stitches, and gives up; it’s tightly bound across his chest. But what he _can_ do is pry it down to see his wound. The slash falls across his chest at a diagonal almost, cutting a swath through the light brown scruff.

He replaces the bandage as best he can and slips back into the bed, suddenly overcome with eagerness to see and be near Abbie. Moving gingerly Ichabod gathers her into his arms and presses a kiss to her sweet smelling hair. It’s such a familiar and missed scent that he does it again. Somehow Ichabod manages to put quick kisses all across the crown of Abbie’s head, but she still does not wake. 

_She must be exhausted_ , Ichabod considers, nudging her temple with his nose. He should endeavor not to be a complete cad and leave her to her sleep. He pulls her closer, letting his hand drift down her back to the dip of her spine, achingly close to the swell of her ass. Ichabod forces himself to stop, to go no further, but he hasn’t had Abbie in his arms in such a long time that parts of him aren’t really responding to reason. 

Ichabod inhales through his nose and tries to convince his body to behave, shuddering weakly when Abbie murmurs something breathlessly against his chest and throws her leg over his hip. He closes his eyes and prays for strength, his hand at her waist. This is not the way he wants to wake his wife, after having been injured, after having been parted for such a time. 

But it’s a choice rapidly falling out of his hands as Ichabod feels the flex of her glorious posterior just below his hands. Surely he could cup her, just gently, and go no further? Surely he can handle that. Ichabod slides his hands lower and where he intends to merely rest one hand on the curve of her ass he ends up filling both hands with Abbie’s glorious flesh as he tries to move closer between her legs. 

“Icha –ugh,” Abbie moans sweetly in his ear, her hands on his face and neck as her eyes flutter open. 

“Ichabod?” she asks, blinking away the last of sleep to be sure she’s seeing him clearly. 

Regardless of what she’s seeing, her body is responding as if it’s starving. Abbie opens her legs so Ichabod can nestle in between them and they both shudder with their respective need. 

“Are you – oh god, please,” she grunts when he thrusts against her core, hindered by the thin material of her gown only. 

She cups his face, trying to maintain sanity while his hardness presses against her. His skin is warm but not overly so; the fever hasn’t returned. 

“Ichabod, you’re awake,” she says, her heart soaring before her stomach drops and a powerful desire pools in her lower abdomen.

“I have missed you, _mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs against her lips, swirling his hips against her. Ichabod feels darkly triumphant when Abbie’s eyes flutter shut and she tilts her head for him to mouth wet kisses at the join of her shoulder. She cries out weakly when Ichabod bites down and soothes the ache with his tongue. 

“I’ve… I’ve missed you, too. Ichabod – ooh – you shouldna, nae with your injury,” Abbie chokes out, keening when one of Ichabod’s hands snakes down and drags her gown up her leg, baring her flesh to him. Greedily he caresses all he can reach, dizzy with desire and malnutrition. 

But he wasn’t about to stop, not now when he has her in his arms. His hands find their way under Abbie’s gown and immediately he’s drawn to the heat between her legs, and the sodden curls at the apex of her thighs. He drags his fingers through them, gathering moisture, before his digits part her flower and slip inside.

She arches into his touch, scrabbling against his shoulders as he moves deeply inside of her. 

“Ichabod,” she cries, her face wet with tears. 

“I couldna think of anything but you, my Abbie,” Ichabod rumbles as he rubs inside of Abbie’s slick walls, feeling the fine tremble of her leg against his side. 

“I couldna stand being away from you and I willna be parted from you again, this I promise,” Ichabod says before capturing her mouth in a searing kiss.

Abbie attempts to hold on for dear life and feels her hips begin to move of their own accord, rising to meet the thrusts of Ichabod’s hands. She swoons as he breaks off the kiss; everything feels three times as sensitive and all she wants is to get out of this gown so he can – 

Ichabod hisses and pauses, groaning and falling onto his back. 

“I dinna think my chest likes that position,” he groans as he presses his hand against his bandage. 

“Ach, you… you!” Abbie, horrified, helps him adjust so he’s lying on his back completely. Ichabod looks winded and faintly sheepish as he attempts to calm his breathing. 

“How are you always able to make me forget good sense,” she asks Ichabod, her face flushed and her nipples hard and straining through the thin material of her gown. Abbie sees him staring and she bites her lip as he brings the hand that was within her to his mouth, and sucks his fingers clean. 

“Incorrigible,” she says weakly, shifting as she feels herself throbbing for him.

“I am starving for you, Abbie Crane,” Ichabod says. “If I were uninjured and at full strength I would have you until you couldna walk, until you couldna talk for all the screaming of my name you’ve done.”

Abbie groans and hides her burning face. 

“Stop talking like that,” she says weakly. “You’re nae better yet and you’re going to convince me to do things--I’m just glad you’re better. We’ve all been so worried,” she says, leaning over him for what she plans to be a quick kiss. Ichabod’s other arm snakes out and pulls her forward, flush against him as tight as he dares with the bandage. 

“You believe me, do you nae?” he asks quietly. “That I have missed you? That I thought about you every day and if there had been a way for me to be by your side all this time I would have done so?” 

Abbie ducks her head and nods. Looking up, she sees the fear in his eyes and kisses him to keep that look from his face or she’ll cry. 

“I do,” she murmurs, and kisses him again to reassure him. “I missed you, too.”

“Aye?”

Abbie pulls back to see Ichabod fully.

“Aye, you fool. Do you still want me?” she demands.

“I want naught but you, _mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs.

Abbie’s smile is hesitant as she glances away. 

“Then you’re still my husband, Ichabod Crane.”

Ichabod yawns in spite of himself, shaking his head to attempt to slow the speed in which exhaustion sets in. 

“Will you be here when I wake or is this another dream?”

Abbie cups his face gently as his eyes begin to flutter shut. 

“I ask myself the same question,” she says, and Ichabod fades into unconsciousness. 

~*~

Roast and gravy, potato mash, garlic turnips and buttery bread are heaped upon Ichabod’s plate and no matter how much he eats he is _famished_. Abbie hovers as he takes his meals in bed, propped against the headboard using the arm that doesn’t pull on his stitches to shovel food into his face.

Ichabod can’t help his groan of satisfaction as he sops up the juices from the roast with the last of his bread and pops it in his mouth, sucking off the remaining juice from his fingers. 

“Maighread has outdone herself,” he rumbles, in that wonderfully pleasant place where your stomach is full and nothing is urgent at the moment. 

Abbie smiles and tilts her head. 

“I prepared that, actually,” she says. “I just wanted… Nevermind.” 

It sounds silly when she says it aloud, and she flushes further when Ichabod reaches out to grasp her wrist. 

“Wanted what?” he asks curiously.

“For the first meal you ate upon your return to be from me.” She fidgets and doesn’t quite look at him, overcome with embarrassment.

Ichabod feels warm all over and can’t keep the grin from his face. 

“I should’ve known from all the love I felt from it,” he says, and pulls her closer to nuzzle against her cheek. 

Abbie perches on the bed, careful not to jostle Ichabod or his tray, and rests against him. 

“I think I’ve forgotten how to be around you,” she whispers into the scant space between them. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “This is my fault. All of it.”

“Maybe nae all of it,” Abbie says. 

“ _Mo gràdh_?” he asks.

“Aye?”

“I love you. I love you so much,” Ichabod says, clutching her hand tighter. 

Abbie swallows and inhales shakily. 

“I love you, too,” she whispers.

Ichabod freezes. 

“What was that?” he asks, almost dizzy with hope.

“I love you, too,” Abbie whispers even quieter. 

Ichabod pulls her closer, trying not to laugh. 

“If you say it any smaller I fear your breath will blow the words away. Abbie, love, can you say it louder?” he asks, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

Abbie’s eyes flutter shut. 

“I hate you, Ichabod Crane,” she murmurs, baring her neck when his kisses begin to travel. 

“Do you?” Ichabod pulls back and looks Abbie in the eye. “My wife, do you hate me?”

Abbie looks pained, and clasps his hand tighter. 

“No,” she admits. “I meant it when I said I love you, Ichabod. Heaven help me, I think I love you too much,” she mutters.

Ichabod sags against the headboard, dizzy with relief and happiness. 

“If I could, I would dance you around this room. Give me a few days, and I will be able to show you how much I’ve missed you.”

Abbie peers at him with concern. 

“You’re nae feeling overly warm,” she says as she presses her small hand to his cheek and neck. He leans into the touch and she smiles. 

“Stop that,” she says. “I’m trying to make sure you dinna die.”

“Aye,” Ichabod says, kissing her fingertips quickly before remaining still. “I dinna feel feverish, merely weak. That’ll pass when I get some more hearty food inside of me.”

Abbie nods.

He looks at her for a moment. 

“You look thin, _mo gràdh_ ,” he says. 

“My appetite has been coming and going,” she says. “Hard to keep things down most days, but it’s slowly getting better.”

“Is it because I’ve returned?” Ichabod asks. 

Abbie can’t help but smile at his attempt to elicit another compliment. 

“Partly,” she says. “Are you still hungry?”

“I can wait a moment. Give my stomach a chance to adjust.” Ichabod hesitates. “I havena seen you eat since I’ve woken.”

“You’ve been awake all of most of a day,” Abbie says. “And I dinna know if you realize, but you’ve drifted once or twice.”

Ichabod looks surprised. 

“When?” he asks.

“When you asked for some cool water, then requested ale. I had to wake you for both.”

Ichabod frowns. 

“I dinna remember asking for ale,” he says, and Abbie laughs and leans close to kiss his brow. 

“You’re still healing, my husband,” she says, moving his tray from atop his thighs and settling herself there carefully. 

“There will be plenty of time to watch me shovel food in my maw,” Abbie says with a sigh. They remain that way, in silence, Abbie’s fingers tracing the very edges of his bandage. 

Ichabod says nothing, worried at how light Abbie feels sitting upon him and vows to make sure to speak to Maighread about Abbie skipping meals. He watches, transfixed, as she takes one of his hands in both of hers, tracing the rough skin of his palm borne of wielding a sword and spear. 

Abbie lifts his hand to her face and presses her cheek into Ichabod’s palm, closing her eyes and cradling it to her face as she fights tears. 

“I’m glad you’re awake,” she says lowly. “At one point I didna know if I had removed all the infected flesh.”

Ichabod’s chest hurts but it has nothing to do with his wound. 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he says. 

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Abbie says, and both she and Ichabod jump at the knock on the door. 

“Oi, are ye decent?” Bram asks through the door, banging on it again. “He’s nae been cleared for whatever it is ye are gettin’ up ta in there. Dinna let him corrupt you, Abbie.”

Abbie’s shoulders drop and she shakes her head. 

“Where’d you find him,” she jokes as she slides from Ichabod’s lap.

“I found him in the forest as a child,” Ichabod says petulantly, missing the weight of Abbie on him immediately. 

Bram comes in, big smiles as he glances back and forth between Abbie and Ichabod. 

“Ach, ye’re both dressed. Good ta know,” he teases.

“What do you want, Bram?” Abbie asks, swatting at him affectionately.

“I came ta finally find out what happened ta yer bonehead husband,” he says. “We dinna know where ye were attacked but it couldna have been in the valley or we’d been overrun days ago.”

Ichabod shakes his head, frowning as he rubs at his bandage. 

“Wisna in the valley. I was taking the long way round because I had a feeling I was being followed. I guess whoever was following me lost patience because there were three mounted men and they meant to beat Abbie’s location out of my hide.”

Abbie looks vaguely ill as Bram sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Probably lucky ye escaped with yer life,” he says. “Right stupid, runnin’ off drunk,” Bram snaps.

Abbie freezes and slowly turns to her husband, who appears to be trying to shrink away from her gaze. 

“You did what?” she asks, lowly. 

Ichabod clears his throat. 

“There were extenuating circumstances,” he said. “My father wanted to send men to retrieve you and return you to your clan.”

Abbie looks a little winded. 

“And you convinced him nae to?” she asks.

“Nae really,” Ichabod says. “I sort of confronted him while inebriated and insinuated that if he tried I wouldna be opposed to removing him from my list of problems.”

Abbie’s jaw drops and she glances at Bram. 

“He didna.”

“Yer husband is an idiot when he’s drunk. Eloquent; but an idiot. Courageous,” Bram adds. “But an idiot. Dedicated, assuredly, but most certainly an-”

“Ach, yes, I think she gets it,” Ichabod snaps. 

“Just want her ta get the full picture,” Bram mutters. “Lord Orrin and his advisors were tryin’ ta squeeze Ichabod into revealin’ where ye were. They’re afraid of Clan Mills and they dinna want ta admit it.” 

He hesitates. 

“Then there’s also the bounty for whomever finds ye,” he says.

Abbie raises an eyebrow. 

“A bounty. A bounty on my head?”

Ichabod glares at Bram and gestures for Abbie to return to him. 

“Nay, _mo gràdh_ , your family is willing to give quite a bit to get you back. They’re offering tilling rights on Mills fields for five years.”

Abbie sputters and slaps Ichabod’s hands away. 

“I’m nae worth five years of tilling rights,” she screeches. 

“Nay,” Ichabod agrees. “You’re worth a hundred years of tilling rights.”

Abbie crosses her arms. 

“I fear you’re a little biased,” she says. 

“And yer family isnae?” Bram points out.

“That’s beside the point. They’re disrupting my plans and I have spent years getting them together. What are they thinking?” she asks. 

Bram chuckles. 

“That they’ll do anythin’ ta get ye back.”

Abbie shoots him a mock glare. 

“You’re nae helping.”

“Didna know that was my job,” he retorts cheerfully. 

“Dinna think I’ve forgotten about you riding off drunk,” Abbie says, whirling on a smugly smirking Ichabod. “You could’ve been killed!” her voice breaks and she ducks her head to keep her tears at bay. 

“Aye,” Ichabod says. “I wisna thinking-”

“No, you werena, Ichabod Crane. You’re nae allowed to do that anymore; do you understand?” Abbie asks, in his face once more.

Ichabod almost crosses his eyes to look at Abbie’s finger in his face and swallows in the face of her extreme mood shift. 

“Aye,” he murmurs soothingly, pulling her into his arms as best he can without worrying his injury. 

“I’m sorry, _mo gràdh_ ,” he whispers, kissing Abbie’s cheek softly. She sniffles, but turns into his touch to capture his lips in a gentle kiss. 

Abbie sniffles again. 

“I just dinna understand why you’re so determined to make me a widow,” she says, eyes shining with tears yet unshed.

Ichabod swallows, feeling like a cad of the lowest order.

“I swear that isnae my intent.”

“Good,” she says. “Because while you are an idiot you’re _my_ idiot and I plan to have you around for quite some time, aye?”

Ichabod beams. “Aye.”

“How many were there?” Bram asks. 

“Three, I think,” Ichabod says. 

“Were you able to catch a look at any of the men who attacked you?” Abbie asks.

“I dinna – they were wearing Mills colors,” Ichabod says reluctantly. “It’s hard to pull details from that night.”

“Due to your inebriation, aye?” Bram snaps.

“Aye,” Ichabod mutters. 

“Do you remember any faces at all?” 

If necessary Abbie will make sure her clan understands they are not to touch her husband, even if she has to make a few painful examples so others may fully understand. 

“Bits and pieces,” Ichabod admits.

“Did… you kill them?” Abbie asks. 

Bram watches her hide her mouth behind her hand, her face suddenly ashen as she presses her other hand to the side of her abdomen. Again, Bram is concerned, but it seems the moment passes and the color returns to Abbie’s face. 

Ichabod nods. 

“Save one,” he remembers. “The man attempted to fight but when I bested his companions he took one look at me and fled…” Ichabod reaches for Abbie and she takes his hand immediately. 

“I have no quarrel with your clansmen,” he says. 

Abbie nods, and places a kiss on his knuckles. 

“It’s a mess and it couldna be helped. I would rather have you back,” she says honestly. 

“One face, sort of stuck out to me – I immediately thought he was a Northman,” he says, sifting through his memory. 

Abbie frowns. 

“What about him caught your eye?”

“He had a slightly dull look on his face and his nose was large, hawkish.”

Abbie considers. 

“That could be a number of men,” she murmured. “Anything else?”

Ichabod ponders. 

“He kept switching his sword from hand to hand,” he suddenly remembers. “He wouldna stand still.”

“He wouldna keep still so ye could stick the pointy bit in?” Bram murmurs. “Some people are so rude.”

Abbie shoots him a lukewarm glare and pauses. 

“Shifting his sword from hand to hand… brown hair and a large, hooked nose… Oh,” she mutters, and sways just a little. Both Bram and Ichabod react immediately, ensuring Abbie is steady.

“ _Mo gràdh_ , what’s wrong?” Ichabod asks.

“The man who escaped is called Mesner. He’s… he’s a devious man and he is smarter than he appears. Much smarter,” Abbie says. 

“He ran like a coward,” Ichabod says. “He showed none of the character you’ve prescribed to him.”

“Because first and foremost he’s an opportunist,” Abbie says. “If retreat will give him a tactical advantage, he will do it. If he thinks it in his best interest for you to consider him a coward he will have no issue, as long as his deeds win the day.”

Ichabod frowns.“What do you think he’ll do?” he asks. 

“He’s probably nearby; he willna have gone far, except to send word for more men.” Abbie clutches Ichabod’s forearms, fighting the lightheaded feeling. “The nearest village; whose protection is it under?”

Ichabod glances over at Bram. 

“Clan Crane,” he says.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“Mesner will find out about that. He’ll use it to draw you out.”

“How?” Bram asks.

“He’ll cut through the village until your clan is forced to respond,” Abbie says.

“But if they’re wearin’ Mills tartan then they’ll think it’s yer clan instead of – Where does Mesner’s allegiance lie?”

“Clan Reynolds,” Abbie says, fear spiking in her gut, making it churn uncomfortably. The nausea she’d been holding back surges to the forefront again and she takes a deep breath in through her nose. 

“We canna let them hurt anyone,” Bram says. “We’ll have ta make sure Mesner is taken care of.”

“Aye,” Ichabod says.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“You’re nae even healed,” she says weakly. “You dinna know if he’s called for reinforcements! You know nothing!” Her grip on Ichabod’s forearms tighten as she tries to keep the room from spinning. 

“They’re… going to start a war…” Spots swim before her eyes as Ichabod and Bram suddenly sound as if they’re coming from a long ways away. When did they leave? Why is everything spinning so fast?

 _Just… I need to close my eyes_ , Abbie thinks.

She does – and blessedly - everything stops.

~*~

“No, no, no!” Ichabod hisses as he overextends himself to catch Abbie as she slumps backward. Bram starts forward but he has her, and eases her onto the bed. 

“Get Maighread,” Ichabod says, checking Abbie for fever and finding none. 

“ _Piuthar bheag_!” He reaches for her but stops. “What’s wrong with her?” Bram demands. 

“I dinna know,” Ichabod says. 

“She looked sick earlier but I thought she got over it,” Bram says. “She was unsteady on her feet a few days ago, too.”

Ichabod shakes his head, trying to quell the dread creeping up his spine. 

“ _Mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs. “Get Maighread,” he barks. 

Bram starts and rushes to the door, throwing it open to reveal a surprised Siobhan with a tray. She shrieks and the tray wobbles. 

“Apologies, Lord Bram,” she says shakily. “Is there a problem?”

“Where’s yer mum?” Bram demands. “Lady Abigail has fallen ill and we need assistance.” 

He grabs the tray as Siobhan glances into the bedchamber. She sees Abbie sprawled on the bed across Ichabod’s legs and her eyes widen.

“Aye,” she says, and flees down the stairs.

Bram puts the tray, laden with early dinner offerings, on the table and returns to Ichabod’s side to fret over a still unconscious Abbie. 

“Why would she just faint like this, Bram?” Ichabod asks. “Did she say she was ill?”

Bram shakes his head. 

“I asked her and she said she was fine. I didna get the impression she was lyin’, but I did feel she was hidin’ something. I wish I had made her tell me.”

Ichabod has difficulty swallowing around the lump in his throat as he attempts to make Abbie more comfortable. He’s struck by how beautiful she is, and his heart clenches; is he doomed to lose her just when he’s got her?

 _If she goes, I will go with her_ , Ichabod swears. 

“Ach, I hear yer dark thoughts from here,” Bram says. “We canna jump ta conclusions just yet.”

“What happened?” Maighread demands, huffing a little from running all the way from the lake, where she was washing the linen. Famhair bounds into the room, no longer the scrawny puppy Ichabod remembers, having grown to reach Maighread’s waist with the top of his head. 

“She just fainted,” Ichabod says, cursing the tremble in his voice. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with her?” 

Famhair whines and sniffs around Ichabod’s legs, half climbing onto the bed to try and get to Abbie. 

“She didn’t eat breakfast did she? The tray was empty but she didn’t take a bite, did she?” 

Maighread wrestles the overeager dog back onto the floor where Bram grabs him and keeps him away. 

“She said she wisna hungry and… she’d eat later,” Ichabod trails off. “She asked me nae to tell you.”

“Ach. She didn’t eat lunch either, did she?” Maighread asks, clasping Abbie’s hand and squeezing it briefly. “We need to get her out of this dress.”

“I’ll return when she’s decent,” Bram says, and his tone brooks no argument as he herds Famhair out and closes the door behind them. 

“She only had a bite of my sausage and veg and said she didna have an appetite.” 

“Ach, ye’ve been upsetting her haven’t ye?”

Maighread pulls out one of Abbie’s lighter gowns from the wardrobe and sighs. 

“…Aye,” Ichabod says, ashamed of himself. 

“I would appreciate it if ye tried not to, milord, but she’ll be fine,” Maighread promises him. 

“But why did she faint?” Ichabod asks. 

“It happens sometimes when pregnant women get overwhelmed. She’s been so worried about ye since ye’ve been gone and she hasn’t been letting us take care of her as she should.”

Ichabod blinks as his brain stutters over what he’s just heard. 

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks dumbly.

Maighread doesn’t spare him a glance as she begins to untie Abbie’s bodice. 

“Ach, squeezing herself into these,” she mutters, more to herself than Ichabod. “They’re pretty but can’t be comfortable.”

“I’m sorry, did you say my wife is pregnant?” Ichabod whispers.

Maighread pauses, horrified. 

“She didn’t tell ye?” she asks.

Ichabod shakes his head. 

“Ach. I’m going to be in so much trouble,” she mutters as she makes quick work of easing Abbie out of her dress and into her gown. Maighread helps Ichabod tuck Abbie under the covers, and retrieves a cool cloth to put at her brow. 

“I’ll be back to check on her when she wakes; milady just needs more sleep than she’s used to and – well, she’s been so worried,” Maighread says. 

When she realizes Ichabod hasn’t said anything for a while she risks a glance at him and finds he’s not paying her a bit of attention.

His eyes are wide and filled with his wife as he crouches on the bed beside her, her hand pressed to his bandage as he looks at her in wonder. 

“Will ye make sure she eats when she wakes?”

“Aye,” Ichabod vows as he settles onto his side beside Abbie. He’ll make sure she does anything she has to in order to remain healthy.

Her and his child.

Ichabod feels a bit dizzy himself as he reaches out and gingerly places his hand on Abbie’s stomach. There’s a life right beneath his hand. Some mix of him and Abbie is inside of her and it’s going to be a baby. 

Separate from her. 

Separate from him.

“ _Mo gràdh_ ,” Ichabod sighs. “I will do right by you. By you both,” he promises, and settles in to watch Abbie sleep. 

Somewhere between the rise and fall of her chest, he slides into slumber and dreams of spinning Abbie around slowly on a dance floor that goes on forever and ever. 

~*~

“Abbie.”

Abbie shakes her head, attempting to turn away from whomever is trying to disturb her sleep. It’s one of the rare times her stomach is settled and she will enjoy this nap until she can’t any more. 

“Abbie, love, please wake up.”

Abbie presses her face into a hard chest; her hand drifts up to help her discern what she’s snuggling against and just encounters more warm flesh. She leans into the gentle touch at her cheek and suddenly her nose is filled with an exciting, familiar scent. 

Ichabod.

Abbie fights to open her eyes and cannot help the smile that breaks when she finds herself almost nose to nose with her husband. She hums and feels the tug of sleep again.

“Nay, _mo gràdh_ , you canna sleep anymore,” Ichabod says insistently. 

“I can,” she murmurs, burrowing against his chest. Ichabod hisses and her eyes fly open. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, immediately rearing back to check if she’d done him any additional damage. 

“You’re fine,” Ichabod says, and Abbie ducks her head in embarrassment. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks. “And why am I dressed for bed?” 

“I’m looking at you like this because you’re the most beautiful, brilliant woman I have ever met,” Ichabod says.

Abbie peers up at him. 

“You’ve been in the ale?” she asks, and Ichabod chuckles lowly. 

“I say all those things because you’re carrying my child,” he murmurs. “Oh, my Abbie. How do you always manage to lay me bare?” 

Abbie’s eyes fill with tears. 

“Who told you?” she asks.

“Uh… I - was it supposed to be a secret?” Ichabod asks, suddenly confused. He adjusts his arm beneath him so he can continue gazing down at his wife. 

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Abbie sobs. “It’s our secret and it’s important to us and I just – I dinna know,” she wails, tucking herself into his chest to hide her face.

Ichabod holds his chuckle as he leans down, kissing what skin he can reach. Abbie’s cries quiet as he rubs her back and murmurs sweet nothings in her ear. 

“I think I understand,” he says.

“You do?” Abbie asks, out of breath and sheepish. “I dinna sound like an absolute loon?”

“Nay,” he murmurs. “Are you hungry?”

Abbie goes to shake her head but Ichabod is already climbing from the bed to bring the tray of food. Just a moment ago she would’ve sworn she had no appetite but the sight of buttered rolls, small roasted potatoes and fried chicken makes her stomach growl audibly. 

“I guess I am,” she says, embarrassed yet again. 

“No more skipping meals,” Ichabod says, watching Abbie devour a roll and three small potatoes in under thirty seconds. 

“It’s nae always a choice,” she says after swallowing. “Sometimes it’s almost too much to keep water down.”

“But you still have to try,” he presses. 

“Sure, then you can clean up my vomit when it inevitably comes back up,” she snaps. 

Ichabod looks slightly hurt and Abbie regrets her tone. 

“This is hard; harder than I realized,” she says. “I’m scared that I willna be able to give the baby enough food but I canna keep it down. But then there are times…” Abbie moans appreciatively around some crispy chicken. 

“It all tastes so good sometimes I shake.”

“What does Maighread suggest?” Ichabod asks, tucking in as well.

“She says take it one meal at a time, and we should try to find something that I can keep down when my body disna want food.”

“I’ll help.”

Abbie’s eyes widen briefly as she chews on a potato stolen from Ichabod’s plate. 

“You’ll help?” she asks.

“Aye.”

“Ichabod…”

“I just canna have you faint like that again, Abbie. Without any sort of warning you were here and gone the next minute. I didna know what to think.” Ichabod reaches for Abbie’s hand and turns it over, again noting how small it is compared to his. A fierce protectiveness bubbles up within him and it leaves him breathless. 

“You’re my everything, _mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs.

Abbie looks away, attempting to hide her welling eyes. 

“And you are mine,” she mutters. “You oaf.”

They eat in silence for a while, Ichabod pretending to be offended when Abbie continues to filch small potatoes from his plate. 

“You’re a potato thief,” he says mournfully. “I’ve married a potato thief.”

“Such a dark and sordid past,” Abbie agrees. “I knew I couldna tell you until you were trapped.”

“Well and truly.” Ichabod is helpless to merely gaze at the wonderful woman before him. 

“Abbie?”

“Hm?” she asks, determining whether the last of Ichabod’s potatoes should truly belong to him or not.

“I know you were robbed of telling me the news yourself –”

“Ach, dinna bring that up. It was just a temper tantrum, is all,” Abbie says, waving her hand in embarrassment. 

“Nay; I said I understood. So go ahead and tell me.”

Abbie searches his gaze while she chews, and smiles. 

“What are you doing?”

“Turning back time a bit,” he says. “So tell me,” he prods. 

Abbie shakes her head and wipes her hands on one of the napkins. 

“Ichabod, my love?”

Ichabod’s heart picks up. 

“Aye?” he asks, moving the tray aside so he can move closer.

“We’re having a baby,” she whispers, and bursts out laughing as Ichabod whoops and hollers, gathering her in his arms and squeezing as hard as he dares. 

“Ooh,” she hisses.

“What, did I hurt you?” Ichabod asks, his hand dropping down to her abdomen. 

Abbie shakes her head. 

“I think it’s too small for you to do any damage,” she teases. “No, it’s nothing,” she says.

Ichabod frowns, and nudges her nose with his own. 

“Out with it, woman. I dinna want you to hold a thing back from me, you hear?”

Abbie rolls her eyes fondly. 

“You’re a right idiot, have I told you that?” 

Ichabod smothers his laugh with a sloppy kiss to her lips. 

“Dinna distract me. Now tell me what’s wrong?”

Abbie sighs. 

“It’s my breasts,” she admits. “It feels like they’re growing every day and they’re so sensitive and sometimes they hurt.” 

Ichabod’s gaze immediately drops down to Abbie’s chest. 

“Do they hurt now?” he asks, unable to look away.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“They’re just heavy. Maighread says they’ll get better before it’s all said and done but the tenderness should ease a bit.”

Ichabod pretends to ponder as he creeps closer. 

“Can I see?”

Abbie looks at him knowingly. 

“You just want to leer at my tits, Ichabod Crane,” she laughs. 

“Is that a crime? If I canna leer at me own wife’s tits, whose can I leer at?” Ichabod asks playfully, pulling her into his arms.

Abbie snorts softly as she reaches up to touch his cheek. 

“You say that now, but when I’m as big as a cow and swollen all over your sweet words willna save you, if you have any left for me,” she says quietly. 

“Ach, hush. Now let’s have a look.” 

Ichabod helps Abbie lift the gown over her head as far as his stitches allow, and swallows at the beautiful, warm brown skin revealed. Immediately he leans forward, pressing his face against her chest and breathing in deep. 

Abbie laughs as he bears them both to the bed, whimpering when Ichabod’s nose brushes against an already pebbled peak. 

“Ach, I told you they were sensitive,” she mutters, pushing against the side of his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Ichabod whispers against her flesh, pressing soft kisses everywhere he can reach. 

The changes in his wife’s body are obvious once it’s bared to him; Ichabod has to control the urge to bite and squeeze. 

“Do they still hurt?” 

Abbie’s breathing quickens as she watches Ichabod’s mouth creep closer to her right nipple. 

“A little,” she says.

“Would a kiss make it better?” he asks, and Abbie nods mutely. Ichabod’s tongue flicks over her turgid nipple and she shudders, biting back a moan. “Did that help any?” 

“That wisna a kiss,” she says shakily. 

“Apologies,” Ichabod rumbles, and takes Abbie’s entire nipple into his mouth and suckles gently. 

Abbie rears off the bed, crying out even as she clutches Ichabod to her chest. She squirms beneath him, the sensation of his hot mouth going straight to her core. 

“Ichabod,” she half screams, pulling him away when it becomes too much.

“Did I hurt you?” Ichabod asks, half-drunk with the way her body responds so readily to him. 

“Nay,” Abbie says breathlessly, ashamed at how quickly she’s wet and wanting him. What she’d planned to say next collapses into a moan as he presses wet kisses against her collarbone and up to the join of her neck. 

He cups her breasts gently in both hands, marveling at the way they’re heavier and larger. Ichabod tries not to get excited but he’s fascinated by the way Abbie whimpers and arches into his touch as he gently thumbs her nipples. He leans up and kisses her deeply, groaning into her mouth when she rocks her hips against him. 

“Ichabod,” Abbie groans after she breaks off the kiss to breathe. “You’re nae healed yet.” 

She whimpers as she feels his hand slide down her side to clutch her hip possessively. 

“I’m healed enough to love my wife,” he rumbles low into her ear. 

Abbie shudders and cries out when one of Ichabod’s long, talented fingers cards through the curls between her legs and slips easily inside. 

“Oh, Abbie,” he groans as the sensation of her silken walls clutching his digit as it sinks into her to the knuckle makes his cock twitch. Ichabod moves to rise to his knees when he shifts wrong and a lance of pain slices across his chest. He can’t keep the pain from his face and Abbie sees. 

“Ach, you fool; I told you we should wait,” she says, pushing at his shoulders. 

Ichabod winces and moves to his knees, but doesn’t withdraw his finger from her body, and instead adds a second. 

“Nay, I dinna wish to wait. There are ways we may come together that disna have to bother my wound.”

Abbie’s legs fall open when Ichabod’s thumb brushes across her button, and she curses how good it feels. 

“Ichabod,” she whines, groaning when he begins to pump his fingers in and out steadily. Every nerve feels like a live wire and she can hear the squelch her body makes when he pushes his fingers in.

She wants it to be his cock.

“Damn you, Ichabod Crane, making me need you so,” she says, covering her eyes at the way he takes in her whole body, like she’s some precious thing. “I dinna want you to make your injury worse.”

“We can find a way, can we nae, _mo gràdh_?” Ichabod asks, groaning when Abbie begins lifting her hips in tandem with his thrusts.

Abbie’s body feels pulled taut and Ichabod’s making more and more sense. Why not just give in to her husband? 

“Yes,” she shudders, forcing herself away from him so she can think. “Just…” she swallows; the way he’s looking at her makes her want to clench her legs together while she tries to remember how to breathe. 

“Sit back against the bed.”

Ichabod looks briefly stricken. 

“That’s nae close enough to you,” he says.

Abbie tries not to laugh as she crawls closer to him. 

“Better?” she asks. 

“Nay,” Ichabod says, struggling to back up to rest against the headboard. 

Abbie can see his consternation and takes pity on him, moving closer to arrange the pillows so Ichabod can sit up properly without straining his muscles. He reaches for her as soon as she’s in range, rubbing her soft skin and pressing kisses to her shoulder. 

“You’re nae helping,” she mutters, and bites back a moan when he slides his hand down her front and catches a nipple on his way down. 

“Didna know I was supposed to,” Ichabod mutters, too busy concentrating on the plethora of flesh available to him. Impatiently he pulls her onto his lap and kisses her soundly.

“Ichabod,” Abbie snaps, “I’m trying to –”

“It’s perfect,” Ichabod interjects gently, smiling softly as Abbie purses her lips and lets her hands settle on his shoulders. 

“You’re taking care of me so well, _mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs. “Now I just want to be with you.”

Abbie inhales shakily, the thrill of having her husband back in her arms lances through her body and settles with a dull throb in her womanhood, now nestled quite close to his groin. She glances up and catches his knowing grin before Ichabod swallows her laugh with a kiss.

They remain that way for some time, kissing lazily; Abbie’s hands on Ichabod’s shoulders and his hands at her waist. They trade whispers of affection and poor jokes back and forth in the scant space between them, causing them both to laugh and break off the kiss at some point. 

“Can it always be like this between us?” Abbie asks, pressing her forehead against Ichabod’s.

“We can hope,” he says. “And fight for it. But know that naught that happens to us or between us will diminish my love for you.” 

Ichabod rests his head against Abbie’s shoulder and sighs. He wishes there was nothing to pull him from her arms ever. The rest of his life, just like this would truly be heaven. 

“You love me?” Abbie asks as she moves as close as she can get without pressing too hard on Ichabod’s bandage. 

Ichabod inhales deeply against Abbie’s skin and lets his tongue dart out to taste, grinning as she shudders. 

“Aye,” he murmurs.

“Say it again?” 

He lifts his head to see Abbie unable to look at him. 

“Oh, _mo gràdh_ , I love you more than anything. More than life itself. This whole world could burn for all I cared; as long as you and my child were with me.”

Abbie sniffles and wipes away the surprise tears before they can fall. 

“You always know what to say,” she says, and leans in to kiss him again. This time there’s nothing slow or languid about it. Ichabod fills his hands with her ass and pulls her flush against his hard cock.

They rock against each other like that, spreading Abbie’s wetness as Ichabod drags her clit along his shaft. Abbie feels like she will come from this alone – already her toes are curling and that deliciously heavy feeling is pooling in her groin. Already it’s good - so good with Ichabod’s teeth grazing her pulse point.

“Ichabod,” she whines. 

“Aye,” he says, straining not to flip them both over and shove into her. 

Abbie raises up enough for Ichabod to angle himself for entry and when she feels the hot, blunt head of his cock begin to part her folds she tries to sink down slowly. As wet as she is, Abbie wonders if it’s been too long; he feels massive and barely more than the head is in. Her thighs begin to shake as her body accepts a little bit more, bit by bit. 

Ichabod uses his thighs to widen hers and shudders when she sinks down even more, crying out softly. 

“Am I hurting you, _mo gràdh_ ,” he murmurs, kissing every inch of skin within reach. 

Abbie breathes through her mouth slowly, trying to get her body to adjust faster. She knows it will feel good if she can just get past this part. 

“God, why are you so big?” she moans, swiveling her hips. The movement sparks a wave of pleasure deep inside and Abbie groans, desperately chasing that sensation. 

Ichabod leans forward and captures one of Abbie’s nipples in his mouth, flicking his tongue against it before sucking gently. Immediately Abbie rocks her hips, bearing down with a shocked moan. It takes all his self-control to not grab her by the waist and shove her down onto his cock. 

Instead he slips a hand down to the pearl between her legs and uses his thumb to rub gently and rhythmically over it, in time with shallow thrusts of his own. Abbie’s head drops to his shoulder as she pants, slowly but surely sliding down his thick shaft. Down to the last inch she raises up and falls back down, eliciting a shout from both of them. 

“Oh god, yes,” Abbie says, concentrating on working herself up and down, feeling her juices almost pour out of her when she rises up. The sound Ichabod’s cock makes when it glides back in has her eyes closing tightly, almost embarrassed at how wet she is, how much she wants him. Ichabod’s work against her button is making her muscles flutter around him and with an almost inaudible sigh Abbie accepts the last of Ichabod.

She stills, unable to move quite yet with so many conflicting signals her body is sending her. Ichabod’s no better; his hand returns to Abbie’s waist to slide behind down to her ass, squeezing her plentiful flesh with a groan. It makes Abbie rock against him and she really enjoys that feeling. She does it again, pressing small kisses to Ichabod’s face before licking into his open mouth. 

Abbie moves her hips faster, unable to do much more than just rock back and forth but he’s in so deep and it feels so good. She lets Ichabod set the pace as he begins practically lifting her off his lap by just a little and letting gravity slide him back home. The stroke isn’t as long as he would’ve chosen, but every time Abbie’s pubic bone kisses his, his toes curl. Abbie moves to her knees and grinds down before lifting herself higher and slamming down, crying out when he bottoms out inside of her. 

She sets an enthusiastic pace, reveling in the sounds she pulls out of Ichabod on each down stroke; feeling powerful and desired as he stares up at her, helpless in her thrall. Abbie’s thighs begin to burn just when the ascent to her climax begins and she falls against Ichabod, groaning and laughing helplessly. 

“I thought my thighs were stronger,” she says breathlessly.

Ichabod shudders as Abbie flexes around his shaft and he bites gently at the join of her neck. 

“God, you are amazing,” he mutters. “Let me up from here and I will show you what I can do with my thighs.”

Abbie prays for strength as she shakes her head. 

“No, your chest,” she says. “Let me do the work.”

“Abbie –” 

Ichabod bites off a swear as she swivels her hips, grinding down and rocking her hips in earnest. He can’t help but thrust up when she bears down, ratcheting up the heat almost immediately. Ichabod’s hands return to Abbie’s ass so he can pull her harder into him. 

Abbie falls forward, her hands on the headboard on either side of Ichabod’s head as she works her hips, shivering when Ichabod slides over that spot inside of her. She clenches tightly around him when he takes one hand and gently cups a pendulous breast, and keens at the barest swipe of his thumb against her nipple.

Ichabod’s thighs are nearly soaked and he immediately fills his hand with her other breast, ghosting over both nipples simultaneously. Abbie’s mouth drops open and she arches into Ichabod’s grasp - pushing her chest into his hands and rocking faster. 

“I want your hands all over my body,” Abbie pants, pushing against the headboard to grind down harder. 

“Where?” Ichabod asks with a groan, drunk on sensation of her silken walls gripping his shaft almost painfully tight. He slides his hand down her sides, marveling at the softness of her skin and how her waist still nips in. Soon it will expand, housing his growing child nestled safely inside until it’s ready to come out. The thought makes him pull her down for a kiss. 

Abbie moans into his mouth, desperate for relief. 

Ichabod smiles up at her mischievously before swinging Abbie around so she’s on the pillows and Ichabod is kneeling between her thighs. From this position he widens his stance and thrusts forward, watching greedily as Abbie’s breasts jostle. 

“From this position I can reach and touch everything I want,” he says, and proves it by gently sliding his thumbs along the bottom of her jaw before sliding down her neck, feather light. 

He continues down, tracing her collarbone before sliding down her shoulders and arms, entwining his fingers with hers. Her grip tightens when he moves again with purpose, giving Abbie the stroke she needs. Her back is arching under the rapidly building pleasure – Ichabod is pulling her onto him as he thrusts forward, grinding into her at the top of his stroke. It’s making Abbie’s legs shake and all she needs is – Ichabod’s hands slide up her abdomen to cup her breasts, tweaking her nipples and Abbie finally comes, clamping down on the steel of his cock inside of her.

The manipulation of her sensitive nipples draws out her orgasm and Abbie swears the whole universe just fades away as she explodes into the heavens. Her body is no longer flesh but electricity and she is soaring above everything until she begins to fall – fall – fall, back into her body.

Abbie tries to catch her breath and blinks up at Ichabod, who is still leaning over her with a very smug expression. 

“Ach,” she says, still a little breathless. “You…” 

The planned poke to his ego falls to the wayside under the way her muscles are humming deliciously. 

“I what?” Ichabod asks knowingly.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“You better nae hurt your chest again,” she says, and he chuckles. 

“I’m nae, _mo gràdh_. But there is a little matter of…” he flexes inside of her and Abbie gasps, still sensitive. 

“How do you want me, my husband?” she asks, and giggles breathlessly at the way Ichabod’s hips move as if on their own, swallowing at her words.

“I dinna know if I’ll ever get used to you calling me that,” he mutters. “Hope I never do.” 

He squeezes her hips, trying to decide. Ichabod reluctantly withdraws from her body and pulls Abbie up against him for a long kiss, running his hands up and down her sides. He can’t get enough of his wife’s kisses, and would easily trade oxygen for her lips. Reluctantly they part, for they still need to breathe. 

“I want you on your knees with your hands against the headboard,” Ichabod says. Abbie looks confused but complies, turning away from him to grip the top of the headboard with her hands. 

“Perfect,” he rumbles, his cock straining as he crowds up behind her. Ichabod hisses as he comes in contact with Abbie’s perfect rear and he grinds into it. He takes a globe in each hand and parts them just enough to press himself between her cheeks.

“Ichabod Crane,” Abbie says warningly, and he chuckles. 

“Perhaps another time,” he says.

Abbie huffs. 

“I doubt you’re that persuasi- _ugh_ ,” she cries out – Ichabod’s taken the moment to slide inside with one stroke.

“ _Mo gràdh_ , have I hurt you?” he asks, the strain to not immediately thrust forward again evident in his voice. 

Abbie laughs shudderingly. 

“Is that how you plan to shut me up in the future?” she pants.

Ichabod moves her thick braid aside and drops a kiss to her shoulder. 

“It does seem effective,” he teases. “But have I hurt you?”

Abbie turns her head and pulls Ichabod down to her, kissing him long and slow. 

“I feel better than I have in a fortnight,” she whispers against his mouth. “Do I nae _feel_ good?” she asks, biting her lip and contracting her muscles around his length inside her.

Ichabod grasps her waist gently, reveling in how Abbie bends forward. The motion presses her ass firmly against him and Ichabod withdraws and thrusts forward hard, watching her ass bounce. Abbie chokes off a moan as Ichabod does it again and again, at an enthusiastic pace. 

He gratefully peppers kisses along Abbie’s shoulder and up her neck until she tips her head back like a bloom to the sun to receive his kisses. Drowning in the sweetness of her mouth, Ichabod’s hands settle on the plane of Abbie’s still flat abdomen. There’s life there; life he put there, inside of her.

Ichabod cups Abbie’s breasts in both hands, relishing in their additional weight as he gently tugs on her hard nipples. Abbie’s response is immediate; she breaks off the kiss with a high pitched keen, slamming her rear back against him breathlessly. Ichabod smothers a groan, watching as she practically fucks herself on his cock. 

“ _Mo gràdh_ ,” he moans. 

“Ichabod,” Abbie wails. “ _So_ – _ugh_ – _oh god_!” She swears and comes hard, crying out and tightening around him. Ichabod growls as he ruts almost mindlessly in his climax, crowding Abbie against the headboard as he thrusts mightily, spilling himself inside of her. They remain connected for a breathless moment, attempting to come back to earth. 

Abbie leans her head against the headboard and laughs shallowly. 

“It was like you were trying to make me pregnant again,” she teases.

Ichabod feels his face redden as he runs his hands up and down her sides, still shivering.

“Perhaps I was,” he jokes. 

“Ach. It’s hot, get off me,” Abbie says, blowing stray hairs from her damp forehead. They’re both covered in a fine sheen of sweat and Ichabod tries not to wince as he reluctantly pulls out and away. She turns as he moves stiffly to his side of the bed and she glowers. 

“You hurt your chest again, did you nae?”

“Ach,” Ichabod mutters, but doesn’t deny it. 

“Come, lay with me,” he says instead.

Abbie tries to continue her glare but she softens when Ichabod reaches for her hand and tugs her down. 

“You’re such an idiot,” she says fondly, falling almost spread eagled on her side of the bed. “I think a dip in the loch is called for.”

“Aye,” Ichabod says, letting his fingers dangle against hers. “ _Mo gràdh_?” 

“Hm?” Abbie asks, her eyes fluttering shut as she stifles a yawn.

“Are we having a boy or a girl?”

Abbie frowns, her eyes still closed. 

“Just because it’s inside of me disna mean I have some magical insight.”

“Of course,” he says. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

Abbie opens her eyes at the query, more awake than she was a moment ago. 

“I dinna know,” she admits. 

“When you dreamt of children, what did you want?” he asks. 

“Who said I dreamt of children?” Abbie turns on her side so she can look over at Ichabod. 

“Really?” 

Abbie sighs. “Dinna sound so surprised; do you think women just sit around constantly thinking about children?”

“Nay,” Ichabod says. “Husbands and children,” he corrects, and laughs when Abbie swats at him. 

“So you never considered what you wanted?”

Abbie shakes her head. 

“Nae really. Children were always an abstract to me.” 

Her hands rest on her bare stomach and she sighs. 

“I guess nae for long.” She looks back to Ichabod. “Did you dream of children?”

Ichabod considers. 

“I think – well no,” he admits. “All my life I’ve been told to get a wife who’ll give me a brood of sons.”

Abbie nods. “And?”

“And I find I wouldna mind a daughter,” he confesses.

“Just to be contrary,” she teases, hiding a yawn behind her hand. 

Ichabod scoots down on the bed so he’s level with Abbie and gives her a long, deep kiss.

“Anything you and I make will be more than I could have ever hoped for,” he says, brushing his nose against hers. 

Abbie blinks repeatedly. 

“Well, I wondered when the tears would return,” she says thickly, and laughs when Ichabod kisses her again. 

Ichabod watches fondly as she tries to hide another yawn. 

“Sleep, my Abbie,” he murmurs. She sticks out her tongue briefly but her eyes flutter shut and Ichabod listens as her breathing evens out as the sun changes the air from yellow to burnished gold. 

When he’s sure Abbie’s well and truly asleep Ichabod rises from bed, grimacing all he likes as he struggles to put on a shirt and kilt. Bending for his boots pulls his stitches too much so he opts to forgo them and slips out the bedchamber in search of Bram. 

He finds his friend in the kitchens, of course, stuffing his face full of succulent offerings from a blushing Siobhan. 

“Holding court,” Ichabod asks dryly after Bram, who hasn’t seen him enter, gives the girl an exaggerated wink. 

Siobhan blushes as red as her hair and darts to the other side of the room while Bram shrugs cheerfully. 

“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ appreciative,” he says, eyeing Ichabod’s face as he sits across from him. “Chest still worryin’ ye?”

“Aye,” Ichabod admits. 

“Good.” Bram sucks his teeth and continues eating.

Ichabod glares at him incredulously. 

“What have I done to deserve that?” he demands. 

“What’s wrong with my _piuthar bheag_?” Bram asks as Ichabod gestures to Siobhan for a plate. “I canna get a straight answer out of anyone and I couldna ask ye because when I returned I was told by Maighread – in no uncertain terms – that Abbie was sleepin’. 

“And I return later ta hear the two of ye enthusiastically catchin’ up. So I’m in a foul mood and I am eatin’ my feelings,” he says.

“You’re such a sulky cow,” Ichabod mutters.

“Aye, and ye should know, bein’ one yourself.” Bram wiggles his eyebrows over his tankard of ale.

Ichabod opens his mouth and shuts it, glaring. 

“Fine then,” he says. “I willna tell you.”

“I dinna care,” Bram says, and goes back to eating when Siobhan brings Ichabod’s plate. 

Ichabod begins to tuck in, utterly famished, when he glances up to see Bram waiting expectantly. 

“I’m nae telling you,” he says around a mouth full of mash.

“Dinna make me poke yer chest,” Bram says. “Out with it.”

Ichabod sighs and wipes his mouth. 

“We were celebrating as it were,” he says.

“Celebratin’ what?” Bram prompts.

Ichabod can’t help but preen. 

“I’m going to be a father,” he says, and Bram’s mouth drops open in shock.

“Oh, heaven help the poor lass,” Bram says, and laughs when Ichabod swipes at him and hisses, groaning and clutching his bandage. 

“Abbie’s got a babe on the way?” he asks quietly. 

“Aye,” Ichabod says. “We’ve done it. We can return home.”

Bram nods slowly. 

“Yeah, we can,” he realizes. “But we have unfinished business ta attend ta; Mesner’s still about.”

Ichabod nods. “Aye. I’m thinking it willna be too hard to ride into town and find out if he’s still alone or if he has reinforcements. If he’s alone, we slit his throat and dump his body somewhere it’ll never be found and we go home.”

“I like the sound of that plan,” Bram says. “When do we go?”

“On the morrow,” Ichabod decides. “I want to spend the night next to my wife.”

Bram rolls his eyes but his smile is fond. 

“I’m glad for ye, Ichabod,” he says. “Truly. Abbie has given ye something I think ye’ve needed for a while.”

“What?”

“Love and someone ta love,” Bram says.

“Ach, you’re such a woman,” Ichabod says, and digs into his food to hide his face. 

~*~

Sanaig isn’t very large but boasts three inns of varying quality. The village caters mostly to the wearied traveler. Those who don’t in some way entertain or accommodate those who pass through are herders under Crane employ. 

When Ichabod and Bram ride into town, Ichabod is in a particularly sour mood; his wound is healed to the point of constant aching and itching, and there was the argument he had with Abbie before having to pull himself away from her side. She doesn’t think he’s healed enough for this endeavor, but Ichabod couldn’t ask Bram to take care of this alone. 

No, as a very public face of Clan Crane and the reason everyone is in this mess, he is required to right it. 

With Ichabod’s face like thunder it doesn’t take long for those who recognize Bram and Ichabod to reveal Mesner’s location; he’s holed up in a tiny room at the inn right on the edge of town. The owner and barkeep say he does nothing but ride out at midday then return by sundown to sit in the chair nearest the door of the tavern and drink between harassing any woman unfortunate enough to fall into his orbit.

Ichabod knows what he’s doing, and is suddenly chilled in the dead of spring. He’s searching for them – for Abbie. 

The look on Bram’s face confirms he came to the same conclusion. 

“Why do we nae wait for this Mesner fellow,” he says with a grin. “Give him a proper Crane welcome.”

Ichabod pretends to consider. 

“I think that would be the polite thing to do,” he says, and turns back to the exceedingly informative barkeep. “Your finest ale, we’ll be at that table.” He points to the one by the door.

The barkeep sweats. 

“I told ye, that’s where _he_ sits,” he whispers.

“Aye, I heard you,” Ichabod says.

“Lord Ichabod, I dinna want any trouble,” he whimpers. 

“And there willna be any,” Bram says reassuringly. “This will be quick and painless.” 

Ichabod pulls a few Scottish crown from the pouch at his waist and places them in the man’s hands; it’s probably about the same amount of money he sees in two seasons. 

“For the trouble you willna be having,” Ichabod says.

“Aye,” the barkeep says, suddenly in a much better mood as the coins disappear on his person. 

Bram shoots Ichabod a look as they amble over to Mesner’s preferred spot and settle in.

~

Abbie is pulled to consciousness by a small, cool hand and a giggle – it makes her smile even as she opens her eyes. 

“Aidan,” she sings, pulling the little boy closer and kissing the top of his curly head. Aidan giggles and pushes his face against Abbie’s neck in order to hide. 

“Are you ‘wake now?” he whispers, and Abbie chuckles. 

“Aye, I am.”

“Oh, good.” 

Abbie sits up as Maighread hovers by the door with a tray in her hands. 

“I thought ye could use a sweet awakening,” she says, jutting her chin at her youngest son. “Nothing like Aidan to lift yer spirits.”

“Ach, you’ve got me,” Abbie says, fondly ruffling the boy’s hair. Aidan scoots closer and puts his head in Abbie’s lap. 

“I didna mean to fall asleep,” she admits, combing Aidan’s hair back absently. Famhair barks from beneath the bed, making her jump and laugh. 

“That’s right, Famhair!” she says, watching Maighread shoo the animal away from her tray. 

Maighread puts the tray on the table and brings Abbie another tray to sit across her legs and hold the plate. On it are bits of cheese, cold grapes, and a bit of crunchy ham shavings. Abbie gets one whiff of it and is suddenly famished. 

“Maighread, you’ve outdone yourself,” she moans, diving into the food immediately. “Everything tastes so good,” Abbie says.

“That’s the baby talking,” Maighread says fondly. 

“Ach, ye,” she snaps. Aidan freezes, caught attempting to steal a grape.

“Oh, dinna cry,” Abbie says as the little one’s eyes well with tears. “Here,” she whispers, giving Aidan a handful of the sweet fruit.

Maighread clucks her tongue but says nothing as she busies herself pouring Abbie a chilled goblet of water. 

“When do ye expect Lord Ichabod to return?”

“He shouldna have left,” Abbie grouses. “He’s still got his stitches in and he’s going to do something foolish, I’m sure of it.” She shakes her head.

Maighread nods and pets Famhair’s head as he comes to stand beside her. 

“I couldn’t help but overhear that yer time at Castle Donnáin is drawing to a close.”

Abbie nods, her mouth full, and watches the matron hesitate uncharacteristically. 

“Out with it, Maighread! What is it you wish to say?” she asks curiously. 

“I wondered how much longer would Angus and I be employed and how long we would have before we needed to vacate the premises.” 

Maighread tries to distract herself by pulling out Abbie’s night gown and rearranging the already straightened comb and brush on her vanity, things that Siobhan normally does. 

Abbie frowns, then her eyes widen as she catches on. 

“Oh, Maighread, please forgive me,” she says. “With all that’s going on I didna get to talk to you and Angus about that! I’m sorry if you’ve been worrying. Ichabod and I would like to give you and your family a choice.”

“A choice?” Maighread asks, still not daring to hope.

“Aye. You can either remain here as caretakers or you can come with us. I’ll definitely find much for you to do at home, or you can take up any number of trades available.”

Maighread clutches the simple brooch at her neck, blinking repeatedly. 

“Truly?”

Abbie smiles fondly, handing Aidan a piece of her bacon. 

“Aye,” she says. “You and your family have done so much for me and my husband; I couldna in good conscience turn you away without knowing you’re happy and healthy. I’m sorry if I didna make you feel like a priority.”

Maighread shakes her head. 

“Ye’re newly married, newly pregnant and it seems yer life is rife with danger. It’s understandable we weren’t highest on yer list. But now I know what to talk to Angus about and we can make a decision. When do ye need to know?”

Abbie pauses, a bit of cheese halfway to her mouth. She opens her mouth to respond when Famhair rises up onto the bed, now easily able to snap the cheese from Abbie’s hand without overextending himself. 

“Famhair,” Abbie laughs. “You truly have grown into your name.”

“Out, foul beast. The both of ye,” Maighread says pointedly, snapping her fingers and pointing to the door. Aidan waves goodbye to Abbie before clamoring off the bed. Famhair joins the little boy at the door, sniffing at the bacon residue on his hand and trying to lick it away. Both boy and dog half tumble, half run out of the room, already whooping, barking and playing. 

“One day that’ll be yers,” Maighread says.

Abbie nods, suddenly unable to swallow around the lump in her throat. 

“I hope he’s half as happy as Aidan,” she says.

“Ye think ye’re having a boy?”

Abbie rolls her eyes, the stress of the moment breaking. 

“You sound like Ichabod. If I could go a day without my breasts hurting or growing and I didna throw up whenever it pleased god I wouldna even know I was with child,” she says. 

“It’ll come to ye; that feeling ye’re looking for. Ye’ll want to give it away when it does,” Maighread says truthfully as Abbie laughs, “but it will come. Right now just enjoy the fact ye’re able to see yer feet, and enjoy yer shoes before yer feet swell.”

Abbie blinks slowly. 

“Before what, now?” she asks around a grape in her mouth. 

Maighread chuckles. 

“Don’t you ever wonder the source of a woman’s bad mood?” she asks. 

Abbie shakes her head. 

“I dinna even question my moods anymore,” she admits. “I’m up and down and that’s just trying to decide if I’m going to lace my bodice all the way, if I even _can_.”

“Ah.” Maighread looks sympathetic as she comes to sit beside Abbie on the best. “Perhaps it’s good ye’re sitting.”

Abbie swallows audibly. 

~

Ichabod’s mood is well and truly in the black - the sun has set and still no sign of this Mesner fellow. Bram broods while staring into his drink, it tastes nothing like the mead to which he’s accustomed, and he can’t bring himself to finish the rest, or at least that’s what he’s told Ichabod three times already.

Bram knocks his boot against Ichabod’s and Ichabod glowers. 

“Kick me again, Bram Bowie, and I will nae hesitate to whip you like we were kids.”

“Ye mean the last time ye were able ta whip me?” Bram’s eyebrow rises. 

“We should go home, back ta Abbie,” he mutters. “This was a waste of time.”

Ichabod straightens in his chair, raising his finger. 

“It isnae my fault the weasel didna show. I can only hope he’s decided to return to his master with his tail betwixt his legs, having failed nae only to kill me or follow me, but to discern Abbie’s location.”

Bram nods, and both he and Ichabod look up as the door to the tavern is thrown open and a lean man with dark brown hair and a hawkish nose barrels through, looking tired. His clothes and manner of walk proclaim him a Northman on sight. They watch him amble to the bar and rap his fist against the wood twice. 

“Beer,” he calls, and puts his head in his hands. 

Bram looks over at Ichabod before slowly coming to stand beside Mesner. 

“Let me get that for ye,” he says smoothly, sliding over a coin to the barkeep as he sets down a big mug of frothing drink.

“An’ what’re ye gonna want for it? No man wants nothin’ for somethin’,” he says, and flicks Bram’s coin back at him. 

“Just tryin’ ta be friendly. My friend and I would like ye ta join us at our table,” Bram grits out, gesturing to where Ichabod still sits. 

Mesner turns and freezes before he takes a gulp of his drink. 

“What if I dinna want ta?”

“I can be very persuasive,” Bram says, his smile hardening. 

Mesner takes a look at Bram’s bulging biceps and nods slowly. 

“I can spare some time,” he says sullenly, and keeps Bram side by side on the way to the table. Mesner pulls out his own chair and sits in such a way he can make the quickest getaway. 

“Aye,” he chuckles. “I thought I recognized ya. Surprised ye’re upright,” he says, taking a long pull from his cup.

“No thanks to you and your companions; where are they again?” Ichabod asks. “Oh, that’s right; fallen to my sword.”

Mesner’s jaw works as he glares at Ichabod. 

“What d’ye want?”

Ichabod nods slowly. 

“No need to beat around the bush, right, Bram?” he asks. 

Bram shrugs a shoulder. 

“I dinna mind beatin’ around a bush. Or in front of a tavern… in front of a man’s ma…” He smiles woodenly. 

“I want you to leave,” Ichabod says. “Leave and tell your master whatever you have to so he loses interest in searching for my wife here.”

Mesner scratches his beard on his neck and considers. 

“A bribe?” he laughs.

“A Northman disna need money?” Bram snaps.

“Oh, we all need money,” Mesner says. “But so far all we’re doin’ is talkin’.” 

Ichabod pulls a pouch from his belt and throws it on the table. The glint of silver is immediately evident when Mesner opens it. 

“Is that conversation enough?” he asks. 

Mesner is impressed. 

“Aye,” he says. 

“For that price I want you back on your horse and out of this village. Now,” Ichabod says.

Mesner grabs up the pouch and drains the rest of his beer. 

“Aye,” he says, and without another word leaves the tavern without a look back.

Ichabod stares at the vacated chair for a moment before glancing over at Bram. 

“That was… surprisingly amicable.”

Bram shakes his head. 

“I know most men would do anythin’ for money but somethin’…” He shrugs. “I dinna know. We just need ta be on the lookout, is all.”

“Agreed,” Ichabod says. “But for now let’s return. Abbie will be quite pleased to know I didna lift a finger in violence.”

Bram chuckles. 

“Bent ta her will already,” he teases.

Ichabod nods. 

“I know no greater truth,” he says, and laughs.

~*~

_When Angus and Maighread decided they would follow Ichabod and Abbie, preparing to leave turned into putting away Castle Donnáin. As much work went into opening it goes into closing – décor is removed and stored. Furniture has to be covered in white sheets and windows nailed shut. Bram and Ichabod lend a hand with the closing of the stable and moving of all items that would make the journey back home with them._

Home _, Abbie thinks as she stands in the master bedchamber._

_It’s been stripped of any and all signs that she and Ichabod ever resided here; the bed was bare and furniture stacked and covered. It feels… mournful now, instead of cozy and a bit exciting. Somewhere in her mind Donnáin had crept into her heart where home used to be Anoach, in Glendhu._

_But she can’t deny the excitement at the thought of seeing her family again, not when the time is now so close. Abbie misses her mother’s hugs and the way Lady Lori walks with her around the castle - arm in arm – discussing day to day business. She misses the way her father would try not to laugh when she would report foolishness encountered when going about clan affairs._

_Most of all she misses Jenny and the wild feeling Abbie has when they’re together. It’s like a bird trapped behind her ribcage because when Jenny talks of the world it sounds wide open – they just have to reach for what they want._

_Abbie knows better now_.

The wagon suddenly shudders and she’s thrown from the memory – Abbie’s in one of the covered wagons, surrounded by Siobhan and Aidan - both asleep – and Famhair, whose head is sticking out of the flap used to keep the air circulating under the cloth cover. It’s warm enough for Abbie to be just on this side of uncomfortable, but lying down helps. She can’t wait for the sun to begin to drop in the sky so the evening breeze can cool everyone down. 

She pushes Aidan’s damp curls from his forehead and smiles at the sigh of relief from the child’s lips. She tries to settle back down and maybe go to sleep for real when Abbie and Siobhan start at a scream.

Maighread.

Abbie scrambles to the back and sticks her head out as Ichabod rides up, sword drawn. 

“Back in,” he bellows, and turns Cadeyrn to gallop past the wagon. Ichabod brings his sword down on a man attempting to climb into the driving seat next to Maighread, and his body falls away in a spurt of blood. 

“Angus, can ye wield a sword?” Bram asks, after dispatching another would be assassin. 

“Aye,” Angus yells, and pulls his broadsword from where it sat at his feet. “Maighread, get in the back,” he says. 

For once Maighread doesn’t fight him, and slides into the wagon bed from over and behind the driver’s seat.

“What’s going on?” Abbie demands.

“There are men attacking us,” Maighread says. “About four, down two – ” They hear a squelch and a groan followed by a thud. 

“Three,” she corrects. 

The flap at the back of the wagon shifts and then is thrown open – it’s a man Abbie doesn’t recognize but what makes her pause in confusion is the man is wearing her clan’s tartan. 

“Who are you,” she demands, and everyone screams when a sword appears in the man’s chest. 

Blood pours from his mouth as he attempts to talk but his eyes roll up into his head and he topples back out of the wagon and out of sight. 

Aidan immediately starts crying and Siobhan tries to shush him when the flap to the wagon opens again - this time it’s Ichabod, a bright slash of red across his white shirt. 

“Oh, Ichabod,” Abbie says, throwing herself at him and apologizing when he hisses at the contact on his chest. 

“Aye, I broke it open again,” he mutters. “But Bram, Angus and Ian have gone off to chase the other two men. I need you to stay here until we return.”

“Ichabod, they’re wearing my tartan,” Abbie mutters. "But they are nae my people." 

“Aye,” he says gravely. “They mean to cause war.”

“Godspeed, my husband. Bring back the others and yourself in one piece, you hear?” Abbie says, smoothing his lapel and forcing herself to let him go. 

Ichabod presses a quick yet reassuring kiss to her lips before jumping out of the wagon, Famhair jumping up to follow him.

“Famhair, stay,” Abbie snaps, and the huge animal’s ears immediately droop as he comes to lie in front of her. 

“Ach, my fool men,” Maighread says as she rocks a still terrified Aidan back and forth in her lap. “If anything happens to them I’ll kill them,” she swears. 

Abbie feels like she’s going to vomit, and just makes it out of the wagon before the meager breakfast she’d choked down comes right up. The sight and smell of the dead man doesn’t help either; she shudders and turns in time to see the fist coming at her. Abbie dodges and grabs the man’s wrist, using his own momentum to pull him off his feet and crash his face into the side of the wagon.

This man is wearing the Mills tartan as well, but she doesn’t recognize him. She pulls his sword from the scabbard and levels it at him. 

“Who gave you the right to wear this?” she demands as he stumbles back, his nose red and bloody. 

He spits at her feet. 

“I dinna answer to you,” he sneers.

“That tartan says you do.” Abbie gestures to his kilt with the tip of the sword. “Now answer my question.”

“Ach, put that down before you make me mad,” the man grunts, and swipes at Abbie to come away with a bloody stump.

“It’s easier than you realize to lose your hand at the wrist,” Abbie says, flicking the blood off the sword and onto his fallen comrade’s body. The man, screaming, falls back onto the ground clutching what’s left of his right wrist. Famhair bounds out of the wagon and into the woods, growling. A moment later there’s a strangled scream and then nothing. “Good boy!’ Abbie crows.

“Milady!” Maighread gasps at Abbie’s handiwork. 

“Stay inside,” Abbie says, and turns back to her prisoner. “I hope that wisna your dominant hand.”

The man swears loudly as he continues to bleed. 

“They can keep their bloody money; I’m gonna kill you,” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth. He jumps to his feet and stumbles – a red stain almost blooms around the shaft buried in his chest. The man grimaces, and falls over dead. 

“Canna have that happenin’, now can we?” Mesner says as he puts his bow on his back.

Abbie shakes her head. 

“Why am I nae surprised,” she mutters. 

“Because Ichabod Crane disna understand loyalty; deep down ye know that,” Mesner says as he comes closer. 

“Yer husband has tasked us to fetch ye. Alive,” he adds as he nudges the corpse of the man he just killed. “I will nae let anyone interfere with my plans. But I thank Crane for the money – I shouldna be wantin’ for company this winter.”

Abbie glances the way Ichabod rode off. 

“My husband?” 

“Lord Daniel of Clan Reynolds,” Mesner says expansively. “He wishes to have ye by his side.”

Abbie rolls her eyes in disgust. 

“My husband should’ve killed you,” she says.

“The man ye call yer husband should’ve done a lot of things, first of which was never have touched ye,” Mesner says. “But alas he has an’ that’s why we’re here. Lord Daniel intends to take what’s his.”

“I am nae his! I am nae an object!” Abbie says. 

“And yet ye’ve been bought.” Mesner shrugs. “Now we can do this with a bit of unpleasantness or we can be civil an’ ye get on the horse. Your choice.”

“It’s too late. I’m pregnant – I’m carrying Ichabod Crane’s baby inside of me,” Abbie says. “Your plans are for naught.”

Mesner shrugs a shoulder. 

“I dinna care.”

“Daniel will care. He willna want me as a wife anymore.”

Mesner laughs. 

“Lady Grace, ye are a means to an end, that’s all. Sure, he’d love to wear out that tight little body of yers but what he really wants is power. Power an’ money. He means to take what was promised to him years ago.”

“And what of you?” Abbie asks. “You speak of this undying loyalty but you’re a Parker; what’s in it for you?”

Mesner smiles. 

“Money – money an’ sport.” Mesner pulls his bow and draws an arrow, nearly a blur as he moves, pointing it at the wagon cover. 

“Now, I dinna care who I hit – I’m bound to get someone you care about. So as I said, ye can get on the horse an’ we can ride an’ leave these people alone. Yer choice.”

~

Ichabod gathers his breath as he touches his chest; his fingers come away red and sticky and he sighs. He’s going to get an earful from Abbie, he knows. He looks around at the bodies across the road and into the field; five men were waiting for them to give chase. What they hadn’t expected was Bram, Angus and even young Ian – who managed to cut down a man all on his own.

He rests against Cadeyrn and waits – he doesn’t have to wait long. Bram and Ian return from the tall grass, dragging a swarthy man between them. They throw him at Ichabod’s feet and wait for him to rise to his knees sullenly. 

“I’m out of patience and I havena any mercy left,” Ichabod says lowly. “You will tell me who attacked us and why you’re wearing the tartan of my wife’s people. Are you kin to her?”

“She’s nae your wife,” the man says, and Bram puts his foot in his back, making him fall and catch himself with his hands.

“Dinna forget yerself,” Bram spits. “Answer the question.”

The man regards Ichabod hatefully. 

“It’s a means to an end.”

“What was the plan? You’d have us think her clan has come to retrieve her?” Ichabod asks. “But that makes no sense – she’d immediately know you were fraudulent and we’d end up right back here, with you dead by the side of the road,” he ponders. 

“That’s the problem with Clan Crane,” the man sneers, and his accent changes just a little beneath the heat of anger. “Ye think ye’re smarter’n everyone.”

Ichabod controls his temper – just barely. 

“What is your name, Northman?” he asks, placing the accent.

“I am Leigh of Clan Reynolds,” the man says proudly.

Ichabod nods. 

“Leigh, since I’m stupid, explain to me how you’re on your knees before me?”

“Ye assume I’m nae right where I need to be.” Leigh snorts as Angus rides up, his face pale.

“There’s smoke comin’ from Sanaig, milord,” he says, pulling his horse up beside Cadeyrn. 

Ichabod glances at Leigh and feels the disquiet within him grow. 

“You sacked the town,” he says.

Leigh shrugs a shoulder. 

“Nay, the Mills sacked the town... in retaliation for the abduction of Lady Grace.” His smile is smug. “I doubt there’s a single building left in that village.”

Everything dims as Ichabod is aware of the growing roaring in his ears. 

“What,” he says lowly.

Leigh chuckles. “We didna think it right to leave them standing; buildings need people.”

Ichabod glances up at Bram – he nods and jumps on his horse and takes off toward Sanaig.

“The only reason you havena tasted my sword is because I need to know you’re telling the truth before I run you through,” Ichabod grinds out, the words barely escaping through his clenched teeth. 

Leigh smiles and settles on the ground cross-legged. 

“I’ll wait,” he says, and immediately Ian starts shaking his head. 

“Lord Ichabod… somethin’s not right,” he says. “He wants us here.”

Ichabod nods slowly. 

“Aye,” he says. “You have reinforcements coming? They will be dispatched just like your men.” 

He gestures to the rest of Leigh’s compatriots. 

Leigh tilts his head. 

“ _Coming_?” he asks, and starts laughing. 

Ichabod grabs his sword where he stuck it in the ground and with a clean, practiced swing of his sword Leigh’s head sails through the air, independent of his body. 

“We’ve got to return to the wagons,” he says as he flicks off a bit of something from his blade before returning it to his scabbard. 

Ichabod’s beyond anger and beyond fear – if anyone has touched a hair on Abbie’s head then he would not be held responsible for what he’ll do.

~

“Milady, behind ye!”

Abbie turns with the sword at the ready, catching the man in the gut before she twists her wrist and pulls the blade out, taking some of his intestines with it. The next man who approaches her is ready, and his sword clangs against Abbie’s with intent and skill. 

Abbie blocks his thrusts and hacking slices, her awareness dimming only to the blade and making sure it doesn’t touch her. Her arm is getting tired; it’s been awhile since she’s practiced and her muscles are protesting their rigorous treatment. Abbie sees her opening and ducks close to the man, sidestepping his sword to bring her own up and up through his arm, slicing into it at the shoulder. 

The sword falls limply to the ground as the man clutches his now useless arm, dangling by some muscles from his shoulder. Abbie swiftly puts him out of his misery by slitting his throat and kicking him away. 

She turns, looking for the next threat but there are no more men. Abbie strains, listening for a breath or a snap of a twig – anything to alert her of someone hiding, but she hears nothing. Until Maighread and Siobhan’s scream.

Abbie turns and gasps as Maighread and Siobhan are thrown from the wagon onto the ground, Maighread with a bit of blood at the corner of her mouth. Aidan appears last, in Mesner’s arms, a dagger at the child’s throat. 

“Let him go,” Abbie says, “and you can leave with your life.”

“Ye’re nae in the position to make demands of me, Lady Grace. I propose a trade. Ye for this thing here.” Mesner shakes Aidan’s arm awkwardly, causing him to begin to cry. “So what will it be? Let this mother bury a son or come with me?”

“You wouldna dare,” Abbie says, fighting back the nausea from receding adrenaline.

“This wouldna be the first time I’ve sent a child back to god,” he says. “Believe me or dinna; make yer decision an’ see.” 

“It’s going to be alright, Aidan,” Abbie says, struggling to keep a smile on her face as she looks at his little cherub face, his chubby cheeks blotchy red and covered in tears. Abbie loves Aidan, loves him like he was her own. There was never a choice. 

Abbie throws the sword down sullenly. 

“You’ve got me. Release him,” she says quietly.

Mesner jumps to the ground with Aidan still in his arms. 

“Nay, I think I should teach ye a lesson before we depart,” he says, and time slows for Abbie. 

She sees Mesner’s arm move in slow motion, bringing the blade up to Aidan’s neck. Abbie wedges her foot under the hilt of the sword on the ground and kicks it up high enough for her to catch and throws it like a spear, praying that her aim is true. 

Aidan drops to the ground as Mesner reels back under the force of the blade that has sunk into his shoulder. Before he can attempt to remove it Abbie grabs another discarded sword and strides forward, shaking in anger. 

“I gave you a chance,” she says as he falls to his knees before her. 

Breathless, Mesner looks up at her and back down to the sword still embedded in his body. 

“We’ve all got a path to walk.”

“Aye,” Abbie says, and with a clean stroke of the sword strikes Mesner’s head from his body. 

~

Ichabod sees people on the ground – he urges Cadeyrn faster and almost cries out in relief when he realizes the bodies on the ground are all men masquerading as Mills men. 

“Abbie?” he yells, jumping from Cadeyrn and wincing at how his chest decides to flare again. 

“Abbie?”

“Ichabod, I’m here.” Abbie doesn’t have the energy to go running to him, but she does climb out of the wagon and throw herself into his arms. 

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she murmurs into his neck as Maighread and Siobhan pour out of the wagon to swarm over Ian.

“Aye, as am I. What happened here?”

“We were attacked,” Siobhan says. “Men came after ye left and tried to take Milady – tried to kill Aidan.” 

She starts crying anew. “If it weren’t for Milady we would all be dead!”

Ichabod glances down at Abbie in confusion.

“You did this?” he asks, noting a few body parts no longer attached to bodies.

“Aye,” she says tiredly. “I couldna let you have all the fun now, could I?”

Ichabod can only pull her closer, his hand on her abdomen carefully. 

“You both could’ve been hurt or worse,” he says.

“And if I hadna acted, it would assuredly be worse,” Abbie says. “I could nae sit by and let them kill the O’Learys and take me from you. Nae without a fight.”

Ichabod leans down to press his forehead against Abbie’s, and sighs.

“ _Mo gràdh_ , I canna lose you,” he says. “I dinna think you understand.”

Abbie reaches up to touch his face. 

“What’s done is done,” she murmurs. “Where’s Bram and Angus?” 

Ichabod takes a deep breath as he stares at the sightless eyes of a man and wonders if he thought it was worth it in the end. 

“These cowards, they sacked Sanaig wearing your colors.”

Abbie’s eyes widen. 

“They’ll get the war they want, she says. “We canna let it happen.”

“Aye. What we’ll do is –”

“You’re needed in Carrann Dail, Ichabod,” Abbie interjects. “They’ve gotta know the people who did this werena Mills. And I have to get back to Glendhu to reassure my people that I am alive and well and expose Daniel for the manipulative fraud he is.”

Ichabod is shaking his head. 

“I dinna wish to leave you again,” he says. “There must be a better way.”

Abbie’s smile is wan. 

“Then please tell me,” she says. “Both our causes are dire and must be handled by us. We must split until the pot no longer threatens to boil over. Then we may come back together as husband and wife.”

Ichabod groans. 

“That could take days,” he whines, and Abbie laughs. “I dinna wish to be parted from you that long.”

“Then I suggest you use that persuasive tongue I’ve come to appreciate so much,” she says.

Try as he might, Ichabod can only see the sense in Abbie’s plan. 

“I dinna know if I should be worried that you’re smarter than me,” he jokes before pressing a kiss to Abbie’s upturned cheek. He kisses it again and again until he’s peppering her face lightly. 

“No, you shouldna worry; I am,” she says, and tries to blink away her tears. 

“We need to go,” she says thickly, reluctantly stepping out of Ichabod’s embrace. 

“We’ll head to straight to Glendhu,” she promises.

Ichabod nods, silently. 

“Abbie,” he cries, stricken. He drops to his knees and pulls her close again. 

“Ach, my love,” she croons. “Let me go this one last time.” 

Abbie presses kisses to his forehead and sighs. “Just this last time.”

Ichabod lowers his head until it’s level with Abbie’s still flat abdomen.

“Be good to your mother,” he says thickly. “I’m counting on you to make sure she eats until I return, aye?” He kisses her stomach and Abbie hugs his head close to her. 

Ichabod gathers himself and rises to his feet. 

“Just this last time,” he reiterates, and Abbie nods. “On wings of angels I shall fly back to you,” he vows.

Abbie nods.

“I will hold you to that, my husband,” she says, and before she can invent another reason to dawdle Abbie climbs into the back of the wagon without another look back. 

“Take care of them, I’ll be sending your father along shortly,” Ichabod says to Ian, who looks right at home with the sword at his belt. 

“Aye, Lord Ichabod. Naught will happen to them,” he swears.

“Good lad.” 

Ichabod remains frozen as he and his wife part once more – the wound on his chest has nothing against the ache in his heart and he can’t help but think it will be more than days before he returns to Abbie’s side.


End file.
